Audio Piece on The Roscommon Anthology

Conor Reynolds' audio piece features  excerpts from interviews with kevin Hora, John Waters and myself. Also included is a reading by one of Ireland's finest poets, Patrick Chapman, and singer Noel O'Grady, both recorded at the Dublin launching of The Roscommon Anthology on Thursday 28th November 2013 in the Uppercross House Hotel, Rathmines.

 

Growth

A dot: curious, stirring. 

A fleck: moving, creating. 

A fly: forming, inflating.          

A rock: swelling, building.          

A truck: bulging, looming, 

             

             bullying,

            

                            roaring

                                          You.

 

A Shannon Memory

Revisiting Lough Ree    

Morning comes colourless;

trees stoop to the lake like pilgrims

witnessing images that are riddles in the water.

 

A sudden shriek. “Over here, no here, over here."

I see nothing; the lake keeps its children chilled

in ice buckets among the reeds. 

Once I trailed a ripple from a boat

that bevelled this water. I remember the oars'

loud soft thud, slap till I die.  

It was June. Insects teemed on the  surface.

The sun, that tanned our backs, lulled the countryside

into sleep before the fields were even cranked.

 

My father was there. 

Now December. The lake drags its cutlery

through this cress-green landscape

with an indifference that leaves memories shivering.

 

 

Roscommon Anthology Comes Home

This Friday The Roscommon Anthology comes to Roscommon on the final leg of its tour; 6.30pm in the Bank of Ireland. Brian Leyden will launch the book with support from Seamus Hosey, Seamus Dooley and others.
Vincent Woods featured the anthology on his Arts Tonight show tonight; the excerpt includes brief interviews with Leyden, John Waters, John O'Dea and myself reading The After-Mass Men, (Sabne, I don't have a reading on YouTube, will get to it sooner or later) Here's a link to the programme; the Roscommon Anthology section begins 25mins in. 

http://www.rte.ie/radio/utils/radioplayer/rteradioweb.html#!rii=9%3A10227286%3A0%3A%3A

The Roscommon Anthology is in the Shops

The Roscommon Anthology was launched on Thursday night by Vincent Woods in the majestic King House, Boyle. A great night, with readings by featured writers: Jane Clarke, Mary Turley McGrath, Brian Leyden, John Waters, Gerry Boland and myself; Elaine O’Dea read a Margaret Cousins’ piece, and singer, Cathy Jordan, gave the most beautiful renderings of Percy French songs. We are indebted to County Roscommon Library Services for hosting the event.

The reaction to the book was fantastic. The artworks by Roscommon-associated artists really lifts the publication, the accompanying literary map is a work of art, the biographies add an extra level of interest to the content.

The celebrations now move to Dublin. Radio producer, writer, Seamus Hosey, will launch the anthology in the Uppercross House Hotel, Upper Rathmines Road this coming Thursday, Nov 28^th, at 6.30pm. There will be readings by some of the anthology writers, including Patrick Chapman, Kevin Hora, Kieran Furey and myself. A special treat on the night will be an appearance by Noel O’Grady. We are very grateful to Roscommon Association Dublin for sponsoring the Dublin launch.

The book is now available in selected shops including, in Dublin, Alan Hanna’s, Books Upstairs, The Winding Stair and Connolly Books. Distribution will become wider, check http://www.theroscommonanthology.com/ for outlets countrywide or order directly from the website.

Here’s the wonderful Noel Grady performing.

The Missing Guinness Ad

Back in Feb 2012, I was bemoaning the fact that I couldn't find a particular Guinness ad that I used to see in the cinema back in the eighties. I spent hours trying to find it. There was Joe McKinney dancing while the pint settled, there was the pub clock ticking as the rowers transported a barrel of Guinness over Galway Bay, Louis Armstrong telling us "there is all the time in the world", and the white horses galloping in the waves. When I keyed in surf that's the one I got, but I was looking for a Hawaiian beach circa 1980. I was looking for the quintessential summer experience: sea and sand, sexy girls and sun, glorious heat and azure seas. And surfing. Surfing was still a rarity in Ireland back then;  the ad was a two-minute dream vacation. And the music! I had the ghost of that guitar still playing somewhere in my head and I had a longing to hear it again; for the sun and the bright light and blue rolling ocean and, I suppose, two minutes from my youth.

The Mountain

First I saw a goat, a prehistoric creature with colossal spiralling horns,

coarse matted hair and yellow eyes.

A herd of goats trailing down a gorge

was her hair, ragged streams divining routes down her back,

a cloak of autumn-gold tussocks

with swirls of inlaid bronze bracken blazing in the sun.

Her face was a graphite sheen; eyes: crags in a waterfall,

nose: a darkened  boulder with cold glittering cheeks on either side.

Close by, a rowan’s red mouth was chortling;

a cloud had torn itself to rags escaping the clutches of a hawthorn;

above us hail stones were ripening for a fall.

Left Field Self-Portraits

 

I think the process of writing good poetry is very similar to painting in non-conventional styles, in some ways there is more in common here  than there is with prose-writing. The more radical the approach the more interesting. Here is a selection of self-portraits that stand out; artists that can do these, I think must have that poetry thing. Indeed I think dwelling on any of these for a while might well inspire a poem.

 

 

Schiele in typical Schiele fashion

Francesco Parmigianino's Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror; I love the hand.

Tintoretto seeing himself with rheumy eyes

Dali company-keeping with bacon: Soft Self-Portrait with Fried Bacon

Escher Self-Portrait 1919 Woodcut

 

 Crespi Self-Portrait

 

Courbet (forgot his mobile)

Difficult to decide which Kahlo, but this has some of her trademarks

Francis Bacon looking pensive. 

Roscommon Anthology Launch Dates

A Celebration of Roscommon’s Writers

What have Oscar Wilde’s father, Douglas Hyde, Oliver Goldsmith, John McGahern, Turlough O’Carolan and John Waters got in common? Put a Ros before the common and you’ve got it. They are all writers connected with County Roscommon. 
They, along with 25 other Roscommon connected authors, will feature in a new book to be published this month. The book will be illustrated with artworks from artists with Roscommon connections. A colourful Literary Road Map of County Roscommon is also being published as a companion document. The book entitled THE ROSCOMMON ANTHOLOGY was edited by two natives of Roscommon town, Michael and John O’Dea. The foreword was written by Prof Mary McAleese, ex-president of Ireland and a woman of Roscommon ancestry. The book promises to surprise many people with the great literary heritage that County Roscommon possesses.
.
The Anthology will be launched at 7.30pm on Thursday 21st Nov in King House, Boyle. Roscommon Libraries will be hosting the event, and Vincent Woods will be launching it.

There will be a Dublin launch at 6.30pm on Thurs, Nov 28th in the Uppercross House Hotel, Upr Rathmines Rd, and a Roscommon launch at 6.30pm on Friday 6th Dec in The Bank of Ireland, The Square, Roscommon.

And you are definitely invited!

Goethe's Last Supper

It takes a good writer. I had never registered the hands, not to mention the tiny detail of the knife. Goethe's observation of the detail in 'The Last Supper' is great.

---an excerpt from a piece written by JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE (from Great Pictures, As Seen and Described by Famous Writers, edited by Esther Singleton, pub. Dodd, Mead and Co., New York, 1899) ---

.........The exciting means which the artist employed to agitate the tranquil and holy Supper-Table are the Master's words: "There is one amongst you that betrays me." The words are spoken, and the entire company falls into consternation; but He inclines His head with downcast looks; the whole attitude, the motion of the arms, the hands, and everything repeat with heavenly resignation which the silence itself confirms, "Verily, verily, there is one amongst you that betrays Me."

Before going any farther we must point out a great expedient, by means of which Leonardo principally animated this picture: it is the motion of the hands; only an Italian would have discovered this. With his nation the whole body is expressive, all the limbs take part in describing an emotion, not only passion but also thought. By various gestures he can express: "What do I care?"—"Come here!"—"This is a rascal, beware of him!" "He shall not live long!" "This is a main point. Take heed of this, my hearers!" To such a national trait, Leonardo, who observed every characteristic with the greatest attention, must have turned his searching eye; in this the present picture is unique and one cannot observe it too much. The expression of every face and every gesture is in perfect harmony, and yet a single glance can take in the unity and the contrast of the limbs rendered so admirably.

The figures on both sides of our Lord may be considered in groups of three, and each group may be regarded as a unit, placed in relation and still held in connection with its neighbours. On Christ's immediate right are John, Judas, and Peter.

Peter, the farthest, on hearing the words of our Lord, rises suddenly, in conformity with his vehement character, behind Judas, who, looking up with terrified countenance, leans over the table, tightly clutching the purse with his right hand, whilst with the left he makes an involuntary nervous motion as if to say: "What may this mean? What is to happen?" Peter, meanwhile, with his left hand has seized the right shoulder of John, who is bending towards him, and points to Christ, at the same time urging the beloved disciple to ask: "Who is the traitor?" He accidentally touches Judas's side with the handle of a knife held in his right hand, which occasions the terrified forward movement upsetting the salt-cellar, so happily brought out. This group may be considered as the one first thought of by the artist; it is the most perfect.

While now on the right hand of the Lord a certain degree of emotion seems to threaten immediate revenge, on the left, the liveliest horror and detestation of the treachery manifest themselves. James the Elder starts back in terror, and with outspread arms gazes transfixed with bowed head, like one who imagines that he already beholds with his eyes what his ears have heard. Thomas appears behind his shoulder, and approaching the Saviour raises the forefinger of his right hand to his forehead. Philip, the third of this group, rounds it off in the most pleasing manner; he has risen, he bends forward towards the Master, lays his hands upon his breast, and says with the greatest clearness: "It is not I, Lord, Thou knowest it! Thou knowest my pure heart, it is not I."

And now the three last figures on this side give us new material for reflection. They are discussing the terrible news. Matthew turns his face eagerly to his two companions on the left, hastily stretching out his hands towards the Master, and thus, by an admirable contrivance of the artist, he is made to connect his own group with the preceding one. Thaddæus shows the utmost surprise, doubt, and suspicion; his left hand rests upon the table, while he has raised the right as if he intended to strike his left hand with the back of his right, a very common action with simple people when some unexpected occurrence leads them to say: "Did I not tell you so? Did I not always suspect it?"—Simon sits at the end of the table with great dignity, and we see his whole figure; he is the oldest of all and wears a garment with rich folds, his face and gesture show that he is troubled and thoughtful but not excited, indeed, scarcely moved.

If we now turn our eyes to the opposite end of the table, we see Bartholomew, who rests on his right foot with the left crossed over it, supporting his inclined body by firmly resting his hands upon the table. He is probably trying to hear what John will ask of the Lord: this whole side appears to be inciting the favourite disciple. James the Younger, standing near and behind Bartholomew, lays his left hand on Peter's shoulder, just as Peter lays his on John's shoulder, but James mildly requests the explanation whilst Peter already threatens vengeance.

And as Peter behind Judas, so James the Younger stretches out his hand behind Andrew, who, as one of the most prominent figures expresses, with his half-raised arms and his hands stretched out directly in front, the fixed horror that has seized him, an attitude occurring but once in this picture, while in other works of less genius and less reflection, it is too often repeated

A Strange Parallel: Libel Cost the Wildes, Father and Son, Their Greatness

    The parallel that exists between the end of Oscar Wilde’s glittering career and his father’s, William Wilde, is striking.

    Oscar Wilde brought his lover’s father, the Marquess of Queensbury, to court in a libel action in 1895. Homosexuality was illegal at the time , so Wilde was on a hiding to nothing when Queensbury brought rent boys into court to bear witness to Wilde’s homosexual  activities. The libel case was lost, and later Wilde was arrested on charges of gross indecency. He was found guilty and sentenced to two years hard labour. Released in 1897, he soon after moved to Paris where he died penniless in 1900, aged just 46 years.

   Thirty one years earlier, his remarkably gifted father, William Wilde, was also embroiled in a libel case, which led him to give up a career in which he had achieved international acclaim and a knighthood.

    A patient, Mary Travers , with whom he had been involved, later embarked on a campaign to discredit him; in a pamphlet she wrote and circulated, she characterised him as Dr Quilp, who raped his patient while she was under the influence of chloroform. When Lady Wilde complained to Travers’ father, Mary Travers brought a libel case against her. Travers won the case but was awarded damages amounting to one farthing. The financial cost to the Wildes was large, but the damage to his reputation was much more serious. The scandal was the talk of the town. He retired from his medical practice, (he was Ireland’s leading occulist),and removed himself from Dublin society to the west of Ireland.

Then

It was the time of Afton and Albany,

Joe O’Neill’s band and the Adelaides,

hay forks sharing pub windows

with Daz and Persil; the Smithwicks sign

and the Harp sign, half-ones of Guinness.

It was a time of pipe-smoking

beneath naked bulbs and neon strips,

         the priest in his cassock,

Hillman Hunters, Ford Corsairs,

Wilkinson Swords and Fruit Gums. 

Of scarved heads at mass, berets,

the Messenger and the Far East,

dress makers and blacksmiths;

hollowed faces in the County Home,

yanks in the sitting room.

Lessening the Risk for Alzheimers' Sufferers

The recent, tragic death of Peggy Mangan, an alzheimer's sufferer, in Dublin has been on my mind, as it has been on the minds of many around the country. She walked away from her home on the south side of the city, only to be found dead, 4 days later, on the other side of the city. When found, her dog was standing over her body.
My question is, would it not be appropriate for people who have this condition to wear a badge or some identication, so passers-by can be alerted to the possibility of the person being lost or confused. Might this not have saved Peggy Mangan's life?

She Takes to the Sky

Through baffled bogs, disengaged mountaintops,

I led whistling rocks, croaking ice

till earth turned its blue eye upward.

I drew cream grass from the ground,

graphite cliffs from the sea,

and all the time, slaking the thirst of rivers,

ran rigid fields amok. 

I laughed a stampede of one-legged herons,

cried chains of crocodiles,

roared bees;

and balancing on a lake-shore,

threw myself  to the winds

to fly with them like rain.

The Green Road

The blackthorns above Fenore
are flight rooted;
they are folklore’s skeletons,
beggars of the green road.

Scoured to the knuckle,
stunted on burren karst,
they are the hags on the mountain
hunched from Atlantic gales.

Yet even this stone-weary day,
with hunger perched on their throats,
a robin is singing in each
notes that singe the February air.

Beneath the huddling sky,
into the ear of the green road
it pours, clear as water,
the music of tin whistlers’ dreams.