MEMBERS WORK
Tara Interpreted
(Remembering Emma)
1991
The credits rolled on the audiovisual.
Outside again
we made our own movie.
A small bright face
squints against the sun.
She turns and climbs up the hill
on sturdy six year old legs.
Rolling, rolling,
on warm, late July grass,
she lands at the bottom,
pleased that all four limbs
have arrived together.
She plays the game of
again and again.
Like the children of forever,
rolling towards her future.
The granite bishop ignores
a boy riding the ocean waves of history
on a borrowed chariot
with mismatched tyres and reversed handlebars.
The small tired family walks towards home
and rest.
From central casting thirty sheep
cross the set and exit stage left.
2004
My hat is pulled down hard,
my hands plunged into sheltering pockets.
The slope bears grudging January grass.
The bishop’s stare is rain darkened.
Did she leave any trace here
of the small child’s energy?
Something to pull her back
from the clutches of history?
She’s nowhere here with the spirits of forever.
The credits have rolled.
I turn and head
For home and rest.
Catherine Hastings
|
A Husband’s Tale
Brilliant in fluorescent strata,
Glimmer-lit: you strafe the lines of unit-
Shelving in gung-ho, list-armed readiness;
Pen at hand for ticked elimination,
item by item.
You pause at canisters, at jars – troops
Of red, rust and ochre – helmeted in
Their squat battalions; barrel-chested and
Menacing under cryptic-shielded
Labels, to choose a cherished bolognaise.
On high ground, barrack a sauce opinion
From this unlettered, outflanked foot-shopper
And so advised, decry; with smirks decline.
As commodities swarm bargain upon
Tumbling bargain in the patrolling basket
Your merlin-eyes, quick and skittering in
Their value-hunting temper, cool and so
With final tick, relief.
Return to base,
To check-out and a smiling girl;
Spine-ached, trolley-footed, shelf-shocked,
Seek the safe-house and succour
Of pips, a blue flicker.
Brendan Carey Kinane
Five am in Perth, Australia
We keep a clock at Perth time here
and as I do my final tidy round
I see it’s five am there. Are you
restless, roused by milk deliveries
and heavy bin collecting trucks
or by the swish of dead leaves
dashed against your window?
My mistake, it’s spring there now,
dawn chorus perhaps a discord
of bowerbird, bushlark, thornbill.
Here our sycamore stands stripped,
its rough leaves filthy litter.
At verge of sleep I am befuddled.
Are those pert rooks on the roof
or you sleep-walking in the attic?
And you, I hope, confuse the
clamour of your neighbours waking
with my dressing and descent to put
the kettle on, release your terrier.
Michael Farry
|
The Last Dragon
In the twilight, ‘fore the dawn,
On a misty Winter’s morn.
The winged warlord reared her head
And rose from out her rocky bed.
Then gazing at the speckled sky,
She sensed a change, a turn of tides.
Once mystery laden, magic plains
Lay empty, stricken. Desolate.
A sadness stung her ancient heart,
She knew than what had come to pass.
A truth that hurt her to the core:
The age of dragons was no more.
Decidedly, she left her lair,
And braved the freezing morning air.
A forgotten god in a world that screams,
Of facts and laws. And broken dreams.
She poised a while, then flexed her tail,
All bony plates and armoured scales.
Outspread then, she flung her wings,
Beating slowly, rhythmically.
With a mighty lurch she soared up high,
Into the fragile morning sky.
And declared then, with a giant’s roar,
That all that was would be no more.
While shadow still clung all around
She took to flying, westward bound.
And so it was before the light
She left our land for Evernight.
The Faerie beings that ‘round her played
Dissolved upon the break of day.
All Magic lost for evermore,
To this soulless, changeling world.
Rory O’Sullivan
|
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You were a flash of dazzling colour,
In my youthful days of black and white,
A dummy, a shimmy, a small step-over,
A giant leap to fields of fancy and flight,
Banana shots round barrels and shivering wheat sheaves,
Farmyard stadium of cows and dog watching me achieve
Years of pleasure, slow ripening to reason.
|
The flashes of colour still sparkle ‘n thrill,
Rushing past twisted blood to heady feats.
But ands on heavy hips, the message was chill,
“The Devil take you and your two left feet”.
I began to bury the dreams, forget the magic touch,
‘Till in the Belfast greyness at the far end of the pitch,
They buried you in a Roselawn - forever in radiant bloom.
Dan Daly
|
A Dry Spell
Writers block is like a lack of virility, it hits us all now and then. For months you are beavering away like it is going out of style and then one day you wake up and the feeling is gone. To recharge my batteries I usually go somewhere to get lost in the wilderness. Last Sunday it was looking grim so I headed for Slieve Gullion , on the way there I saw a sign for Kavanagh Country in Inniskeen and felt it might have been an omen so bye bye County Armagh . . . till another day.
I suppose I felt a little stimulated reading about the Christmas Childhood or how poor old Paddy was not appreciated in his day and had to publish his own “Kavanagh’s Weekly”. The Kavanagh Centre had lost its audio visual so I did not have to listen to Pompous Patrick waffling on about the ways of the world instead I read some poetry ,studied old maps and photographs and before I left I collected a local guide and bought a Tommy Sands CD.
The friendly lady on the desk recognised me and asked me how the writing was doing. I got lots of stimulation from that. Nowhere else in the world except in Trim on a Thursday twice a month am I acknowledged as a writer. “That’s it,” I thought “Keep going you will get to the end of the page yet”.
On my way out I remembered my first time in the centre when I met Gene Carroll, the actor who for many years had a one man Kavanagh show for visitors to Inniskeen. I was on my own and he was gracious enough to bring me up to the grave and tell me about the Kavanagh he knew. We also visited the grave of Gene’s wife Kathleen; she had died the winter before. Next time I called, Gene was with Kathleen, I listened to poetry and a few countrymen’s yarns as Colum Sands played the concertina on a spring morning at their grave side
I went walking by the banks of the Fane and took lots of photos as I tried to walk the Monaghan way before the rain. I spent half an hour sheltering under the railway bridge at the station from where they once ran day trips to Enniskillen and Bundoran or shopping specials to Carrickmacross and Dundalk. The boom boom, boom, boom, boom from the lounge in the station courtyard made me feel uneasy and a little uncomfortable. It was definitely out of touch with the stony grey soil of Monaghan. It was like Billy Brennan’s Barn gone techno. Perhaps they should rename the bar “Tarry Flynn’s Boom Boom Room”.
The rain was still falling and I no longer fancied a trip up Cassidy’s Hanging Hill. A Great Hunger came over me, I needed inspiration so I headed across the hills for a nearby hostelry approx three miles from the Harp Brewery in Dundalk which sadly only sold draught Carlsberg. Still the smile from the older woman with the unlined face who welcomed me was worth the lack of the Danish Brew. The young waitress seemed uneasy as I took out a note book and began to note. The restaurant served a brown bread to die for and was full of oversized Roast Beef eaters out for the Sunday Meat Tea with their silent grey haired parents who ooed and ahhed when the waitress presented a tray of veg or a dessert menu.
In the absence of a salad on the menu I had scampi and a further surly waitress who did not want to be there asked if there was anything else. I only wanted her to smile but I suffered a coffee and it was time to go.
With Tommy Sands in my CD player telling me he is “Going back to the bicycle,” I headed for the seaside at Blackrock which on a bank holiday Monday is an amazing place and now also reeked of garlic .This was hardly noticed by the hordes in their cars eating 99’s or maybe it was a special Blackrock recipe for garlic ice cream 99’s. I still had the notebook and the pencil and as I walked and made notes people kept a suspicious eye on my search for inspiration.
I went to Danny Hughes’, the most famous shop in Blackrock where a sign says “this traditional seaside shop has been trading since 1949”. Danny sells Ice Creams, Buckets and Spades, Chips, Candy Floss, Cigarettes and Musical Instruments. I bought a set of drums there 10 years ago. Danny is probably also the local undertaker which explains why he was closed on a Bank Holiday Monday or maybe he was searching for a lucky back cat.
All over town in every shop window someone was looking for Ying Yang and it was obviously the story of the day, the cat missing now for a week and its owner fretting. I wasn’t fretting, I was annoyed that this was the Big Story in Blackrock. Now it was becoming “A bad day in Blackrock” and as there was no sign of Spencer Tracy there was nothing to write about in this sleepy town so I went home to get some inspiration.
Paul Egan
The Love of his Life
The bright yellow of her mini-skirt first caught his eye as he sat in the garden enjoying the beautiful fresh morning; the same warm sun which caught the silver in his hair, drawing particular attention to the lovely long brown legs which seemed to reach forever from her shapely ankles. His mind flashed back to those carefree days of his youth, when such a sight was commonplace, but nonetheless enjoyable – that was one thing could be said of him - he had never lost his eye for a pretty girl, particularly one with long brown legs!
Tom’s eyes twinkled with some of their old lustre as he remembered his Sarah the first time he saw her – she had been hurrying down Grafton Street, her books tucked under her arm, ginger hair and green eyes flashing, obviously late (or almost) for her next lecture. Afterwards he discovered she was studying law and even then the thought had crossed his mind that a legal training would be such a help to him in his business and what a great partnership they would have – to think so early on in their friendship he had been contemplating their future together – the nerve of him really when he thought about it now, but from the moment they first met he had always felt that wonderful spark between them which never seemed to fail, even now.
Shortly after they were married Tom’s father had died and he was left to run the business alone; it had been a wonderful challenge and he had risen to the role in a way he would never have thought possible; all the years when the children were growing up he worked so hard but still managed to have a holiday with the family every year and what marvellous fun they had. Even though Tom was firm in his dealing with his children on a day to day basis and expected so much of them, holidays were different and he could still remember racing them on the sands after the rounders ball or thrashing about in the sea, even if it was freezing cold as it always seemed to be on the west coast of Ireland in Kilkee where they had a holiday home.
Just recently he and Sarah had spent a few days in their favourite old haunt on the west coast; autumn was in the air but what a splendid reunion they both had with old times. As they strolled along the promenade the years seemed to fall away and all the thrill of being in each other’s company flowed back – they seemed to be dancing along at each other’s side again laughing at the wonder of it all. What a marvellous life they had had together.
Tom seemed to doze off in his chair, not noticing as his favourite book slipped to the ground but drifting quietly along towards the beckoning horizon, a wonderful peacefulness spreading through him and as he glanced back to say farewell to his beloved Sarah he smiled knowing that she would soon follow after him for they could never live without each other, not for long anyway.
Hilda Potterton
