scriobh

short story: maggie angre by billy roche

2015-08-21T15:39:00.000-04:00

My intensive swimming lessons over the past couple of weeks have been going well - I am working on a post for my comhrá blog, which should appear over the next day or two. However, during one of the lessons, the memory of a short story came to mind... I hear it read by the author, many years ago. I think it was while he was on a visit to our school. I present a couple of short extracts here, that represent the story's description of swimming. The complete story is somewhat darker, as it explores the memory of a childhood drowning, and a life that might have been, but the idea of Maggie's empowerment and transformation as she dives in to the water have stayed with me.

Coincidentally, I have just finished watching the BBC production of Billy's "Wexford Trilogy" of plays - and am looking forward to seeing his latest work for television which is scheduled to run on RTÉ later this year.

Maggie Angre, a rolled up towel under her arm, stood on the edge of Rainwater Pond...

On the far side the march reeds bowed like pageboys, and in the distance, beyond the railway tracks, the mountains lay heaped against the sky as Maggie began to undress, kicking off her muddy shoes, taking off her pants and jumper and flinging them up into the bushes. She had her bathing costume on underneath her clothes, which was straining now to bear the brunt of her bulging physique. She knelt down and dipped her hand in the water. She blessed herself and she looked up at the cloud rolling sky...

Maggie stood on the jutting out piece of bank where Steven had stood. Awkward and ugly she felt in the daylight as the folds of flesh fell down around her and the fatness of her chilblained legs reflected in the water. And then she dived, leaving behind her footprints in the mucky bank, dirty bits of clay clinging to the soles of her feet as the river rose like a shroud to hide the monstrosity that she called her body. And when she dived her arched body resembled a bird in flight and when she rose up it was with an amphibian grace that she ploughed through the water, eating up distance with every stride, cutting down space with every stroke, her head rising and falling, her arms shooting out tiny white spurts of water as she swam. Maggie Angre was a powerful swimmer. When she swam people stopped to look at her. She could swim out to Useless Island and back again and then without a feather off her she could just turn around and swim the entire length of the Woodenworks. She loved the water. Yes, Maggie was in her alley when she swam.

She was reaching the far bank now, touching it, kicking away from it, travelling under the water for maybe ten or fifteen strides. And then she surfaced, her drenched hair behind her like a wet mane, plunging onwards gracefully...

On the way back she swam with all her might, every inch of water purging its own portion of blame, every foot of ground washing away another sin from the face of the earth. She was swimming for Steven now. She was swimming for Albino Murphy who was killed in the Congo.

..and so she sat shivering on the bank with a towel around her...

She rolled her wringing wet costume up inside the towel and then she climbed up to the top of the ferny bank to sink in the sun.

about: lament for art o'leary

2015-07-19T16:46:00.004-04:00

Leagan Gaeilge
The Lament For Art Ó Laoghaire, translation by Thomas Kinsella

I
The extracts in this section appear to have been uttered by Eibhlín over her husband's body in Carriginima.

My steadfast love!
When I saw you one day
by the market-house gable
my eye gave a look
my heart shone out
I fled with you far
from friends and home.

And never was sorry:
you had parlours painted
rooms decked out
the oven reddened
and loaves made up
roasts on spits
and cattle slaughtered;
I slept in duck-down
till noontime came
or later if I liked.

My steadfast friend!
it comes to my mind
that fine Spring day
how well your hat looked
with the drawn gold band,
the sword silver-hilted
your fine brave hand
and menacing prance,
and the fearful tremble
of treacherous enemies.
You were set to ride
your slim white-faced steed
and Saxons saluted
down to the ground,
not from good will
but by dint of fear
- though you died at their hands,
my soul's beloved....

My steadfast friend!
And when they come home,
our little pet Conchúr
and baby Fear Ó Laoghaire,
they will ask at once
where I left their father.
I will tell them in woe
he is left in Cill na Martar,
and they'll call for their father
and get no answer....

My steadfast friend!
I didn't credit your death
till your horse came home
and her reins on the ground,
your heart's blood on her back
to the polished saddle
where you sat - where you stood....
I gave a leap to the door,
a second leap to the gate
and a third on your horse.

I clapped my hands quickly
and started mad running
as hard as I could,
to find you there dead
by a low furze-bush
with no Pope or bishop
or clergy or priest
to read a psalm over you
but a spent old woman
who spread her cloak corner
where your blood streamed from you,
and I didn't stop to clean it
but drank it from my palms.

My steadfast love!
Arise, stand up
and come with myself
and I'll have cattle slaughtered
and call fine company
and hurry up the music
and make you up a bed
with bright sheets upon it
and fine speckled quilts
to bring you out in a sweat
where the cold has caught you.

II
Tradition has it that Art's sister found Eibhlín in bed when she arrived from Cork City for the wake in the Ó Laoghaire home. Her rebuke to Eibhlín led to a sharp verbal contest.

Art's sister:
My friend and my treasure!
Many fine-made women
from Cork of the sails
to Droichead na Tóime
would bring you great herds
and a yellow gold handful,
and not sleep in their room
on the night of your wake.

Eibhlín Dhubh:
My friend and my lamb!
Don't you believe them
nor the scandal you heard
nor the jealous man's gossip
that it's sleeping I went.
It was no heavy slumber
but your babies so troubled
and all of them needing
to be settled in peace.

People of my heart,
what woman in Ireland
from setting of sun
could stretch out beside him
and bear him three sucklings
and not run wild
losing Art Ó Laoghaire
who lies here vanquished
since yesterday morning?...

Long loss, bitter grief
I was not by your side
when the bullet was fired
so my right side could take it
or the edge of my shift
till I freed you to the hills,
my fine-handed horseman!

Art's sister:
My sharp bitter loss
I was not at your back
when the powder was fired
so my fine waist could take it
or the edge of my dress,
till I let you go free,
My grey-eyed rider,
ablest for them all.

III
These lines, with their public adulation of Art, were probably uttered by Eibhlín after her husband's body had been prepared for burial.

Eibhlín Dhubh:
My friend and my treasure trove!
An ugly outfit for a warrior:
a coffin and a cap
on that great-hearted horseman
who fished in the rivers
and drank in the halls
with white-breasted women.
My thousand confusions
I have lost the use of you.
Ruin and bad cess to you,
ugly traitor Morris,
who took the man of my house
and father of my young ones
- a pair walking the house
and the third in my womb,
and I doubt that I'll bear it.

My friend and beloved!
When you left through the gate
you came in again quickly,
you kissed both your children,
kissed the tips of my fingers.
You said: " Eibhlín, stand up
and finish with your work
lively and swiftly:
I am leaving our home
and may never return."
I made nothing of his talk
for he spoke often so.

My friend and my share!
O bright-sworded rider
rise up now,
put on your immaculate
fine suit of clothes,
put on your black beaver
and pull on your gloves.
There above is your whip
and your mare is outside.
Take the narrow road Eastward
where the bushes bend before you
and the stream will narrow for you
and men and women will bow
if they have their proper manners
- as I doubt they have at present....

My love, and my beloved!
Not my people who have died
- not my three dead children
nor big Dónall Ó Conaill
nor Conall drowned on the sea
nor the girl of twenty-six
who went across the ocean
alliancing with kings
- not all these do I summon
but Art, reaped from his feet last night
on the inch of Carriginima.
The brown mare's rider
deserted here beside me,
no living being near him
but the little black mill-women
- and to top my thousand troubles
their eyes not even streaming.

My friend and my calf!
O Art Ó Laoghaire
son of Conchúr son of Céadach
son of Laoiseach Ó Laoghaire:
West from the Gaortha
and East from the Caolchnoc
where the berries grow,
yellow nuts on the branches
and masses of apples
in their proper season
- need anyone wonder
if Uibh Laoghaire were alight
and Béal Atha an Ghaorthaígh
and Gúgán the holy
or the fine-handed rider
who used tire out the hunt
as they panted from Greanach
and the slim hounds gave up?
Alluring-eyed rider,
o what ailed you last night?
For I thought myself
when I bought your uniform
the world couldn't kill you!

IV
Art's sister makes her own formal contribution here to the keen. Her reference to Art's women-friends brings a spirited reply from Eibhlín.

Art's sister:
My love and my darling!
My love, my bright dove!
Though I couldn't be with you
nor bring you my people
that's no cause for reproach,
for hard pressed were they all
in shuttered rooms
and narrow coffins
in a sleep with no waking.

Were it not for the smallpox
and the black death
and the spotted fever
those rough horse-riders
would be rattling their reins
and making a tumult
on the way to your funeral,
Art of the bright breast....

My friend and my calf!
A vision in dream
was vouchsafed me last night
in Cork, a late hour,
in bed by myself:
our white mansion had fallen,
the Gaortha had withered,
our slim hounds were silent
and no sweet birds,
when you were found spent
out in midst of the mountain
with no priest or cleric
but an ancient old woman
to spread the edge of her cloak,
and you stitched to the earth,
Art Ó Laoghaire,
and streams of your blood
on the breast of your shirt.

My love and my darling!
It is well they became you
your stocking, five-ply,
riding -boots to the knee,
cornered Caroline hat
and a lively whip
on a spirited gelding,
many modest mild maidens
admiring behind you.

Eibhlín Dhubh:
My steadfast love!
When you walked through the servile
strong-built towns,
the merchants' wives
would salute to the ground
knowing well in their hearts
a fine bed-mate you were
a great front-rider
and father of children.

Jesus Christ well knows
there's no cap upon my skull
nor shift next to my body
nor shoe upon my foot-sole
nor furniture in my house
nor reins on the brown mare
but I'll spend it on the law;
that I'll go across the ocean
to argue with the King,
and if he won't pay attention
that I'll come back again
to the black-blooded savage
that took my treasure.

V
Due to some legal obstruction, the body of Art Ó Laoghaire was not buried in the ancestral graveyard, and temporary burial arrangements had to be made. It was possibly some months later that the body was transferred to the monastery of Kilcrea, Co. Cork. Eibhlín appears to have uttered the following passage of her lament on the occasion of the second burial.

Eibhlín Dhubh:
My love and my beloved!
Your corn-stacks are standing,
your yellow cows milking.
Your grief upon my heart
all Munster couldn't cure,
nor the smiths of Oilean na bhFionn.

Till Art Ó Laoghaire comes
my grief will not disperse
but cram my heart's core,
shut firmly in like a trunk locked up
when the key is lost.

Women there weeping,
stay there where you are,
till Art Mac Conchúir summons drink
with some extra for the poor
- ere he enter that school
not for study or for music
but to bear clay and stones.

about: caoineadh airt uí laoghaire

2015-07-19T16:29:00.001-04:00

English translation

Caoineadh Airt UÍ Laoghaire by Eibhlín Dhubh Ní Chonaill

I
B'fhéidir gur aithris Eibhlín na dréachtaí seo os cionn an choirp i gCarraig an Ime.

Mo ghrá go daingean tu!
Lá dá bhfaca thu
ag ceann tí an mhargaidh,
thug mo shúil aire dhuit,
thug mo chroí taitnearnh duit,
d'éalaíos óm charaid leat
i bhfad ó bhaile leat.

Is domhsa nárbh aithreach:
Chuiris parlús á ghealadh dhom,
rúrnanna á mbreacadh dhom,
bácús á dheargadh dhom,
brící á gceapadh dhom,
rósta ar bhearaibh dom,
mairt á leagadh dhom;
codladh i gclúmh lachan dom
go dtíodh an t-eadartha
nó thairis dá dtaitneadh liorn.

Mo chara go daingean tu!
is cuimhin lem aigne
an lá breá earraigh úd,
gur bhreá thiodh hata dhuit
faoi bhanda óir tarraingthe;
claíomh cinn airgid,
lámh dheas chalma,
rompsáil bhagarthach –
fír-chritheagla
ar námhaid chealgach –
tú i gcóir chun falaracht
is each caol ceannann fút.
D'umhlaídís Sasanaigh
síos go talamh duit,
is ní ar mhaithe leat
ach le haon-chorp eagla,
cé gur leo a cailleadh tu,
a mhuirnín mh'anama....

Mo chara thu go daingean!
is nuair thiocfaidh chúgham abhaile
Conchúr beag an cheana
is Fear Ó Laoghaire, an leanbh,
fiafróid díom go tapaidh
cár fhágas féin a n-athair.
'Neosad dóibh faoi mhairg
gur fhágas i gCill na Martar.
Glaofaid siad ar a n-athair,
is ní bheidh sé acu le freagairt....

Mo chara thu go daingean!
is níor chreideas riamh dod mharbh
gur tháinig chúgham do chapall
is a srianta léi go talamh,
is fuil do chroí ar a leacain
siar go t'iallait ghreanta
mar a mbítheá id shuí 's id sheasarnh.
Thugas léim go tairsigh,
an dara léim go geata,
an triú léim ar do chapall.

Do bhuaileas go luath mo bhasa
is do bhaineas as na reathaibh
chomh maith is bhí séagam,
go bhfuaras romham tu marbh
Cois toirín ísil aitinn,
gan Pápa gan easpag,
gan cléireach gan sagart
do léifeadh ort an tsailm,
ach seanbhean chríonna chaite
do leath ort binn dá fallaing –
do chuid fola leat 'na sraithibh;
is níor fhanas le hí ghlanadh
ach í ól suas lem basaibh.

Mo ghrá thu go daingean!
is érigh suas id sheasamh
is tar liom féin abhaile,
go gcuirfeam mairt á leagadh,
go nglaofam ar chóisir fhairsing,
go mbeidh againn ceol á spreagadh,
go gcóireod duitse leaba
faoi bhairlíní geala,
faoi chuilteanna breátha breaca,
a bhainfidh asat alias
in ionad an fhuachta a ghlacais.

II
Nuair a shroich deirfiúr Airt (ó Chorcaigh) teach an tórraimh in aice Mhaigh Chromtha, fuair sí, de réir an tseanchais, Eibhlín roimpi sa leaba. Seo roinnt den bhriatharchath a bhí eatarthu.

Deirfiúr Airt:
Mo chara is mo stór tú
is mó bean chumtha chórach
ó Chorcaigh na. seolta
go Droichead na Tóime,

do tabharfadh macha mór bó dhuit
agus dorn buí-óir duit,
ná raghadh a chodladh 'na seomra
oíche do thórraimh.

Eibhlín Dhubh:
Mo chara is m' uan tú!
is ná creid sin uathu,
ná an cogar a fuarais,
ná an scéal fir fuatha,
gur a chodladh a chuas-sa.
Níor throm suan dom:
ach bhí do linbh ró-bhuartha,
's do theastaigh sé uathu
iad a chur chun suaimhnis.

A dhaoine na n-ae istigh,
'bhfuil aon bhean in Éirinn,
ó luí na gréine,
a shínfeadh a taobh leis,
do bhéarfadh trí lao dho,
ná raghadh le craobhacha
i ndiaidh Airt Uí Laoghaire
atá anso traochta
ó mhaidin inné agam?...

M'fhada-chreach léan-ghoirt
ná rabhas-sa taobh leat
nuair lámhadh an piléar leat,
go ngeobhainn é im thaobh dheas
nó i mbinn mo léine,
is go léigfinn cead slé' leat
a mharcaigh na ré-ghlac

Deirfiúr Airt:
Mo chreach ghéarchúiseach
ná rabhas ar do chúlaibh
nuair lámhadh an púdar,
go ngeobhainn é im chom dheas
nó i mbinn mo ghúna,
is go léigfinn cead siúil leat
a mharcaigh na súl nglas,
ós tú b'fhearr léigean chucu.

III
Cuireann Eibhlín a mórtas as a fear céile in iúl go lánphoiblí sna dréachtaí seo. B'fhéidir gur aithris si an méid seo tar éis don chorp a bheith rétithe le haghaidh an adhlactha.

Eibhlín Dhubh:
Mo chara thu is mo, shearc-mhaoin!
Is gránna an cháir a chur ar ghaiscíoch
comhra agus caipín,
ar mharcach an dea-chroí
a bhiodh ag ascaireacht ar ghlaisíbh
agus ag ól ar hallaíbh
i bhfarradh mná na ngeal-chíoch.
Mo mhíle mearaí
mar a chailleas do thaithí.

Greadadh chúghat is díth
á Mhorris ghránna an fhill!
á bhain díom fear mo thí,
athair mo, leanbh gan aois:
dís acu ag siúl an tí,
's an tríú duine acu istigh im chlí,
agus is dócha ná cuirfead diom.

Mo chara thu is mo thaitneamh!
Nuair ghabhais amach an geata
d'fhillis ar ais go tapaidh,
do phógais do dhís leanbh,
do phógais mise ar bharra baise.
Dúraís, 'A Eibhlín, éirigh id sheasamh
agus cuir do ghnó chun taisce
go luaimneach is go tapaidh.
Táimse ag fágáil an bhaile,
is ní móide go deo go gcasfainn.'
Níor dheineas dá chaint ach magadh,
mar bhíodh á rá liom go minic cheana.

Mo chara thu is mo chuid!
A mharcaigh an chlaímh ghil,
éirigh suas anois,
cuir ort do chulaith
éadaigh uasail ghlain,
cuir ort do bhéabhar dubh,
tarraing do lámhainní umat.
Siúd í in airde t'fbuip;
sin i do láir amuigh.
Buail-se an bóthar caol úd soir
mar a maolóidh romhat na toir,
mar a gcaolóidh romhat an sruth,
mar a n-umhlóidh romhat mná is fir,
má tá a mbéasa féin acu –
's is baolach liomsa ná fuil anois....

Mo ghrá thu is mo chumann!
's ní hé a bhfuair bás dem chine,
ni bás mo thriúr clainne;
ná Dónall Mór Ó Conaill,
ná Conall a bháigh an tuile,
ná bean na sé mblian 's fiche
do chuaigh anonn thar uisce
'déanamh cairdeasaí le rithe –
ní hiad go lér atá agam dá ngairm,
ach Art a bhaint aréir dá bhonnaibh
ar inse Charraig an Ime!
marcach na lárach doinne
atá agam féin anso go singil –
gan éinne beo 'na ghoire
ach mná beaga dubha an mhuilinn,
is mar bharr ar mo mhíle tubaist
gan a súiile féin ag sileadh.

Mo chara is mo lao thu!
A Airt Uí Laoghaire
Mhic Conchúir, Mhic Céadaigh,
Mhic Laoisigh Uí Laoghaire,
aniar ón nGaortha
is anoir ón gCaolchnoc,
mar a bhfásaid caora
is cnó bui ar ghéagaibh
is úlla 'na slaodaibh
na n-am féinig.
Cárbh ionadh le héinne
dá lasadh Uíbh Laoghaire
agus Béal Atha an Ghaorthaigh
is an Uigdn naofa
i ndiaidh mharcaigh na ré-ghlac
a níodh an fiach a thraochadh
ón nGreanaigh ar saothar
nuair stadaidís caol-choin!
Is a mharcaigh na gclaon-rosc –
nó cad d'imigh aréir ort?
Óir do shíleas féinig
ni maródh an saol tu
nuair cheannaíos duit éide.

IV
Déanann deirfiúr Airt a caoineadh féin anseo. Nuair a luann sí, na mná óga a bhí mór le Art, spriúchann Eibhlín.

Deirfiúr Airt:
Mo ghrá is mo rún tu!
's mo ghra mo cholúr geal!
Cé ná tánag-sa chúghat-sa
is nár thugas mo thrúip liom,
nior chúis náire siúd liom
mar bhíodar i gcúngrach
i seomraí dúnta
is i gcomhraí cúnga,
is i gcodladh gan mhúscailt.

Mura mbeadh an bholgach
is an bás dorcha
is an fiabhras spotaitheach,
bheadh an marc-shlua borb san
is a srianta á gcroitheadh acu
ag déanamh fothraim
ag teacht dod shochraid
a Airt an bhrollaigh ghil....

Mo chara is mo lao thu!
Is aisling tri néallaibh
do deineadh aréir dom
i gCorcaigh go déanach
ar leaba im aonar:
gur thit ár gcúirt aolda,
cur chríon an Gaortha,
nár fhan friotal id chaol-choin
ná binneas ag éanaibh,
nuair fuaradh tu traochta
ar lár an tslé' arnuigh,
gan sagart, gan cléireach,
ach seanbhean aosta
do leath binn dá bréid ort
nuair fuadh den chré thu,
a Airt Uí Laoghaire,
is do chuid fola 'na slaodaibh
i mbrollach do léine.

Mo ghrá is mo rún tu!
's is breá thiodh súd duit,
stoca chúig dhual duit,
buatais go glúin ort,
Caroilin cúinneach,
is fuip go lúifar
ar ghillín shúgach –
is mó ainnir mhodhúil mhúinte
bhíodh ag féachaint sa chúl ort.

Eibhlín Dhubh:
Mo ghrá go daingean tu!
's nuair théitheá sna cathracha
daora, daingeana,
biodh mná na gceannaithe
ag umhlú go talamh duit,
óir do thuigidís 'na n-aigne
gur bhreá an leath leaba tu,
nó an bhéalóg chapaill tu,
nó an t-athair leanbh tu.

Tá fhios ag losa Criost
ná beidh caidhp ar bhaitheas mo chinn,
ná léine chnis lem thaoibh,
ná bróg ar thrácht mo bhoinn,
ná trioscán ar fuaid mo thí,
ná srian leis an láir ndoinn,
ná caithfidh mé le dlí,
's go raghad anonn thar toinn
ag comhrá leis an rá,
's mura gcuirfidh ionam aon tsuim
go dtiocfad ar ais arís
go bodach na fola duibhe
a bhain diom féin mo mhaoin.

V
De bharr constaicí dlí, dealraionn sé nár cuireadh Art i reilig a shinsear. Cuireadh an corp o sealadach; agus cúpla mí ina dhiaidh sin, ní foldáir, aistríodh i go mainistir Chill Cré, Co. Chorcaí. B'fhéidir gur chuir Eibhlín na dréachtaí seo a leanas lena, caoineadh ar ócáid an dara adhlacadh.

Eibhlín Dhubh:
Mó ghrá thu agus mo rún!
Tá do stácaí ar a mbonn,
tá do bha buí á gcrú;
is ar mo chroí atá do chumha
ná leigheasfadh Cúige Mumhan
ná Gaibhne Oileáin na bhFionn.
Go dtiocfaidh Art Ó Laoghaire chúgham
ní scaipfidh ar mo chumha
atá i lár mo chroí á bhrú,
dúnta suas go dlúth
mar a bheadh glas a bheadh ar thrúnc
's go raghadh an eochair amú.

A mhná so amach ag gol
stadaidh ar bhur gcois
go nglaofaidh Art Mhac Conchúir deoch,
agus tuilleadh thar cheann na mbocht,
sula dtéann isteach don scoil –
ní ag foghlaim léinn ná port,
ach ag iompar cré agus cloch.

about: it's a small world / building bridges

2015-07-01T15:14:00.000-04:00

"The aeroplane has unveiled for us the true face of the earth." wrote Antoine de Saint-Exupery. Born in 1900, he first experienced flight in 1912. His best known work, "The Little Prince", is narrated by a pilot stranded in the middle of a desert.

I have a special love for this book, as it was probably the first book I ever owned - when it was given to me as a christening gift by Irene, a friend of my mother's who was for some time a nun. Even as I child I understood that there was another level within the book that when beyond the straightforward fictional narrative, although I lacked the intellectual tools and life experience to uncover the deeper meaning. I have read and re-read this wonderful story many times, and am about to do so again.

One of the things that stayed with me was the concept of a planet so small that it can be viewed in its totality. In the book, this is because they are small asteroids, but I think the writer was speaking to how the arrival and growth of air transport would change both the world, and our perception of it.

He elsewhere wrote "Transport of the mails, transport of the human voice, transport of flickering pictures - in this century as in others our highest accomplishments still have the single aim of bringing men together." Just as mass communication represented a giant leap beyond air travel in closing the distance between people and nations, the marvels of our Internet age have turned our world in to a very small place.

While travel, we are told, broadens the mind, I am not so sure about the virtual travels that we indulge in through social media. We are too free to ignore opposing points of view, or even facts that disagree with our world view. Isn't it ironic that the instantaneous and ubiquitous technology that brings us together also helps us to build walls between "us" and "them"? How much actual 'communication' goes on? Do we spend more time arguing, when we should be explaining? Criticizing when we should be understanding?

I think the term "troll" is deeply suitable for the mean-spirited Internet heckler - someone who would rather live in the shadows under a bridge than walk across it. I always thought that "building bridges" was a positive idea (at least, until I moved to Staten Island, but that is another conversation for another day), but it saddens me to hear people say (directed at someone else, invariably) "Build a bridge and get over it." That kind of bridge I can do without.

speech: nypd citizen's police academy graduation remarks submission

2015-06-24T11:46:00.000-04:00

Last night, I was one of two-hundred and twenty-two people who comprised the graduating class of NYPD's Spring 2015 Citizen's Police Academy. To Elroy Viera fell the task of delivering the Graduate Address. His address was chosen from among a large number of submissions. Below is my own submission:

I would like to add that Commisioner Bratton's quoted the same words from Sir Robert Peel that inspired my "We Are All Cops" theme: "The police are the public and the public are the police; the police being only members of the public who are paid to give full time attention to duties which are incumbent on every citizen in the interests of community welfare and existence."

(Deep Breath)

Just a little tactical breath, before I begin, thank you Sergeant Perkins.

It is an honor and privilege to have the opportunity to stand here today, and represent this gathered group of my fellow New Yorkers, and reflect on the time we have spent together over the course of the past four months. While I may mention individual officers, I by no means want those who aren’t mentioned to feel that I don’t appreciate and value their time and contribution just as much.

Before I deliver my “prepared remarks”, I’d like to share one of my own personal experiences. I am an EDP. Every Day Person, right? Well, yes, but I have also been the other kind. Let me explain: two months ago, I fell in to a deep well of depression and anxiety. At my moment of crisis, I was driving on the Staten Island Expressway, heading towards an appointment in Brooklyn. Thoughts of stopping on the Verazzano Bridge, and jumping off, entered my head. These thoughts became stronger, and began to take control. Somewhere, in the back of my confused and erratic mind, I remembered the police procedures that Lt. Jack Cambria and Detective James Shanahan discussed with us, back in week three. I got off the Expressway, and pulled in to parking lot of a strip mall opposite the 121. I walked in to the precinct house, and told the officer at the front, Officer Villareal, “that I was emotional disturbed, and was afraid I might hurt myself”. He followed the procedures, I got the help I needed, and here I am today.

Thankfully, not everybody has such a personal story. I can put names and faces to the officers whose actions saved my life. NYPD have saved your lives too, even if you don’t know when, where, or how. When they took an illegal gun off the streets, when they took an intoxicated driver off of the road, when they had eyeballs on a potential terrorist carrying out surveillance.

So, to my speech:

Like all education, our fourteen weeks together have given us answers to many questions. Like all great education, it has also left us with bigger questions. Questions about ourselves, how we are, and who we want to be. I’d like to address one of those questions: What exactly is “community policing”?

According to the Department of Justice, “community policing is a philosophy that promotes organizational strategies that support the systematic use of partnerships and problem-solving techniques to proactively address the immediate conditions that give rise to public safety issues such as crime, social disorder, and fear of crime.” That is a lot of big words, so let me cut to the chase: All Policing Is Community Policing. Every Officer is a Community Liaison Officer. Every interaction between an officer and a civilian is a small pebble in the ocean of public perception. I want to share, briefly, one small pebble that I read about, recently, in the Staten Island Advance: while an officer was writing a ticket after catching a turnstile jumper on the Staten Island Railway, the man apologized, explaining that he was out of work, and couldn’t afford the fare. The officer wrote him the ticket anyway. But then he escorted him to a local convenience store, and spoke to the manager, a friend of his. The turnstile jumper is now working at the store. Now, I’m not suggesting jumping a turnstile as a career move, but this is the kind of positive interaction that we hear so little about in the media. If there are enough of these small pebbles, they can start a ripple, then a wave. And that wave can wash away some of the negative aspects of the relationship between NYPD and NYC.

But there is a problem. Many officers appear reticent, (I had to think of a different word than ‘afraid’, because NYPD Officers aren’t afraid of anything), so, many officers appear reticent to engage with the community. I am sure this will change, as the new re-training initiative continues. Yes, it will take time, but we, as a community, can help, and here is how: when you see police officers, show them your hands. Not only that, offer your hand in a gesture of friendship. Tell your family, tell your friends, even tell your enemies. Don’t wait until you are in a situation where an officer orders you to show them your hands - offer them a handshake. Never mind “stop and frisk”, how about “stop and shake”?

I have spoken about every day people, about all officers. About inclusion. I will go a step further and make this bold statement: We Are All Cops. We would do well to remember these four words. Do you remember the four words that Officer Victor Rosa had us recite? Not On My Watch. Same thing. We Are All Cops. We all have a responsibility to deal with each other with Courtesy, Professionalism and Respect. We all have the responsibility to use our own “professional presence” to carry out the primary mission of NYPD - to enhance the quality of life in this city. Some of us may go on to apply to become Auxiliary Police Officers. That is a truly great thing, but the rest of us have the opportunity to become Auxiliary, Auxiliary Police Officers. The opportunity to “Say Something” if we “See Something”; I’m not just talking about calling 212-NYCSAFE. I’m talking about speaking up, and speaking out, when we experience something that impacts on the quality of life in our city. In our stores, in our streets, in our schools. In our churches, synagogues, mosques, ashrams, gurdwaras, and mandirs.

While this is an NYPD graduation, we are not taking an oath, but let us take these four words with us: We Are All Cops.

Thank You.

poem: casey at the bat by ernest lawrence thayer

2015-06-13T16:12:00.001-04:00

I'm not sure what I was searching for when I found this piece. I found it interesting, so I am posting it here so I can read it once in a while.

Casey at the Bat
A Ballad of the Republic, Sung in the Year 1888

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clinched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

Ernest Lawrence Thayer

Oration of P. H. Pearse over the grave of O'Donovan 'Rossa'

2015-06-10T14:43:00.000-04:00

I remember very clearly the first time I read this piece. In 1988 I was in my second year of secondary school, and it was on the syllabus for Honours English. I knew about the leaders of 1916, particularly James Connolly, but I had never heard of the great Fenian, Jeremiah O'Donovan 'Rossa'.

Even though I went on to learn a little more about him, including the fact that he was exiled to America, I only found out last night that he lived on Staten Island. His descendants still live here. One of them had a career as a City Councilman: Jerome X O'Donovan.

"It has seemed right, before we turn away from this place in which we have laid the mortal remains of O'Donovan Rossa, that one amongst us should, in the name of all, speak the praise of that valiant man, and endeavour to formulate the thought and the hope that are in us as we stand around his grave. And if there is anything that makes it fitting that I rather than some other--I, rather than one of the grey-haired men who were young with him, and shared in his labour and in his suffering, should speak here, it is, perhaps, that I may be taken as speaking on behalf of a new generation that has been re-baptised in the Fenian faith, and that has accepted the responsibility of carrying out the Fenian programme. I propose to you, then, that here by the grave of this unrepentant Fenian, we renew our baptismal vows; that here by the grave of this unconquered and unconquerable man, we ask of God, each one for himself, such unshakeable purpose, such high and gallant courage, such unbreakable strength of soul as belonged to O'Donovan Rossa.

"Deliberately here we avow ourselves, as he avowed himself in the dock, Irishmen of one allegiance only. We, of the Irish Volunteers, and you others who are associated with us in to-day's task and duty, are bound together, and must stand together henceforth in brotherly union for the achievement of the freedom of Ireland. And we know only one definition of freedom: It is Tone's definition; it is Mitchel's definition; it is Rossa's definition. Let no one blaspheme the cause that the dead generations of Ireland served by giving it any other name and definition than their name and definition.

"We stand at Rossa's grave, not in sadness, but rather in exaltation of spirit that it has been given us to come thus into so close a communion with that brave and splendid Gael. Splendid and holy causes are served by men who are themselves splendid and holy. O'Donovan Rossa was splendid in the proud manhood of him--splendid in the heroic grace of him, splendid in the Gaelic strength and clarity and truth of him. And all that splendour, and pride, and strength was compatible with a humility and a simplicity of devotion to Ireland, to all that was olden and beautiful and Gaelic in Ireland; the holiness and simplicity of patriotism of a Michael O'Clery or of an Eoghan O'Growney. The clear true eyes of this man almost alone in his day visioned Ireland as we to-day would surely have her--not free merely but Gaelic as well; not Gaelic merely, but free as well.

"In a closer spiritual communion with him now than ever before, or perhaps ever again, in spiritual communion with those of his day living and dead, who suffered with him in English prisons, in communion of spirit too with our own dear comrades who suffer in English prisons to-day, and speaking on their behalf as well as our own, we pledge to Ireland our love, and we pledge to English rule in Ireland our hate. This is a place of peace, sacred to the dead, where men should speak with all charity and with all restraint; but I hold it a Christian thing, as O'Donovan Rossa held it, to hate evil, to hate untruth, to hate oppression, and hating them, to strive to overthrow them. Our foes are strong, and wise, and wary; but strong and wise and wary as they are, they cannot undo the miracles of God, Who ripens in the hearts of young men the seeds sown by the young men of a former generation. And the seeds sown by the young men of '65 and '67 are coming to their miraculous ripening to-day. Rulers and Defenders of Realms had need to be wary it they would guard against such processes. Life springs from death, and from the graves of patriot men and women spring live nations. The defenders of this realm have worked well in secret and in the open. They think that they have pacified Ireland. They think that they have purchased half of us, and intimidated the other half. They think that they have foreseen everything. They think that they have provided against everything; but the fools, the fools, the fools! they have left us our Fenian dead, and while Ireland holds these graves, Ireland unfree shall never be at peace."

P.H. Pearse, August 1^st1915

about: think different / the crazy ones

2015-05-30T11:44:00.000-04:00

"Think Different" is one of those quotes that is so good, it deserves to be the word of as iconic a figure as Jack Kerouac. Alas, it is not. While it evokes similar reaction as his well-known quote from 'On The Road', it is, in fact, the work of a copy-writer in the advertising industry. That doesn't make it any less valuable - in fact, it's role in the transformation of Apple Computers Inc., a loss-making venture, losing what little market-share it had, in to the tech behemoth Apple Inc. that we all know today, would arguably make it the most valuable piece of writing, in monetary terms, of all time. If Helen of Troy was the 'face that launched a thousand ships', this piece is the 'poem that launched a billion devices'. While searching for the text, I read a very interesting article on how the whole 'Think Different' campaign came to be - it offers insights into the creative process, and the genius of the late Steve Jobs, surely one of the 'greatest crazy ones' of his generation.

Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes.

The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them.

About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things. They invent. They imagine. They heal. They explore. They create. They inspire. They push the human race forward.

Maybe they have to be crazy.

How else can you stare at an empty canvas and see a work of art? Or sit in silence and hear a song that’s never been written? Or gaze at a red planet and see a laboratory on wheels?

We make tools for these kinds of people.

While some see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do. '"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"'

- Jack Kerouac, On The Road

Here is a commonly seen image that misattributes the quote to Kerouac:

poem: imperfect

2014-12-11T11:54:00.003-05:00

The death of Eric Garner, the legal process that followed, and the current wave of protests have been weighing heavily on my mind. Of particular concern is the rush, in certain quarters, to dismiss the whole affair, on the basis that Mr. Garner was breaking the law, and that Office Pantaleo was “just doing his job”. What worries me is that many of these same people seem to have a very skewed view of what exactly the job of law enforcement is, evidenced by the outcry over enforcement of speed limits in school zones.

This piece is more general, but was heavily influenced by the tragedy and aftermath of what unfolded in Tompkinsville on July 17th.

Imperfect

We live in an imperfect world
Filled with imperfect people.
I pray in an imperfect church
Beneath an imperfect steeple.

We see the specks in other eyes
While logs obscure our vision.
Color, race, whatever else;
Excuses for division.

I was born of a white bread loaf
But yet we had our slices.
Human nature is meosis
When left to its own vices.

Those closest to us hoard our truth:
Beware the dangerous "other"!
The path towards more honesty
Is to call a stranger "brother".

December 7th 2014; 328

poem: bonfires on every hill (repost)

2014-09-01T17:51:00.001-04:00

I was reminded earlier that today marks eighteen years since Wexford raised the Liam McCarthy cup. From a sporting point of view, it has been a long time, and there have been more than a few false dawns in the intervening years. However, I can vividly remember the emotional roller-coaster of September 1st 1996, and expect that I always will.

By strange coincidence, I was continuing to unpack from our recent trip to Ireland, and came across one of the few mementoes that I squeezed in to my suitcase this time - a copy of the program!

Bonfires On Every Hill
We set off as usual, with our flasks and sandwiches,
Packed, like us, into the little car with purple and gold streamers.
Children in pyjamas, with bears and handmade banners,
Waved us on from the side of the long road to St. Joseph's Avenue.

The ten o'clock DART was invaded, by us hooligans, singing songs
And warning the Limerick lads to celebrate before the match.
There was a sea of hats and flags, green and white
Stretching along O'Connell Street as far as we could see.

Give them their moment, before half past three
When they yield to the ashen pikes of Wexford.
Shoulder to shoulder we stood on the hill,
Sixteen thousand warming up on the subs bench behind the goal.

The game was a blur, like the picture on the front of the program.
Flags, roars, serenading each blade of ruffled grass.
The final whistle, a mirage for the ears.
Swept towards the pitch, on a wave from the sea of something special.

How can I burden the sense of joy with words,
That could not express as much as the million happy tears.
The traffic home was the happiest funeral in history.
The memories of the dark days we dead and buried.
New heroes had arisen, like bonfires on every hill.

224

future memoir: letter to gem 2

2013-05-25T13:39:00.001-04:00

Dear GEM,

There is an offscreen soliloquy scene in "Terminator 2", where Sarah Connor voices her thoughts on the Terminator's suitability as a protector and parent for her teenage son, John. I am often reminded of that scene when I watch Bó interacting with you.

He watches over you, with some combination of paternity and fraternity. At play, he is a big brother, revelling in your laughter, and doing his best to join in. He shares his toys, and expects you to share yours; sometimes his fondness for your stuffed animals goes a little overboard!

As you passed through your crawling stage, he was your constant companion, following closely behind you. Now that you are walking, he gives you a little more latitude, and he is less careful around you. You are adapting, though, and standing firm or correcting you balance when he nudges you or charges past.

His daily treat of a lump of ice is tastier to him, now, I believe, that you are the one dispensing it. It is a joy to watch how gently his powerful mouth prises it from you hand, compared to how robustly he snatches it from adult hands!

These thoughts are tempered with some sadness, though. Bó is such a big and powerful dog, it will be many years before you are able to take him for walks. He is seven (~~four~~) years old now, and will probably have left us by then. I hope that you will at least retain an impression of these days with your faithful canine friend.

Love,

Daddy

future memoir: letter to gem 1

2013-02-16T23:44:00.001-05:00

Dear GEM,

Today you turn 16 months old; becoming more and more a little boy, less and less a baby.

As I was feeding you breakfast this morning, I realized that I would remember and cherish these moments and days forever. However, if you recall any of your early life it will be vague impressions and fleeting memories. So, I decided to write some of our stories down. I will write these occassional letters, highlighting some of our adventures. When you come (as I am sure you will) to write your memoirs, you can refer to them to remind you of these most precious days.

The biggest highlight of 2013, so far, was your first stroll up the center aisle of St. John's Church... we were running very late, and just as we prepared to leave the house you decided to produce a dirty diaper. Luckily, there is a changing station in the church bathroom, so Mommy took you there. I made my way to our usual pew. After the gospel Fr. Cole began his sermon...and appeared to be in full flow when he suddenly stopped. As he explained that he just had to pause, I suspected I knew why - I didn't even turn around. Yes, he stopped so everyone could watch you walking up the aisle. Of course, you were still holding Mommy's hand, but you were steady on your feet and moving confidently.

For you it was just another little milestone, nothing to get too excited about, but the congregation was as entranced as they usually are by our little gem, and your mother was mortified! Even as I finish telling this story, more are jumping in to my head, but they can wait for another letter, on another day.

Love,

Daddy

memoir: christmas eve 1997 (in progress)

2011-04-05T12:13:00.000-04:00

It feels like I have been neglecting this blog lately, and as I was conducting a little file-system spring cleaning I stumbled upon this snippet of work in progress...

Christmas Eve 1997

For me, Platform Five was Connolly Station. Even before I moved to Dublin, it was a fixture in the firmament of my life’s highlights, the day of a hurling match: an early morning walk to the North Station, which really was like a scene from ‘Dancing at The Crossroads’...

Well I remember as a young boy
The beginning of September
We were standing at the station
Waiting for a train.

There was priests and Christian Brothers
There was nuns and Reverend Mothers
There was Guards and drunks and others
But everyone was just the same

Well they came from Enniscorthy
From New Ross and Ferns and Gorey
There was busses from Bunclody
There was horses, carts and all

the track following the course of the Slaney, later hugging the County Wicklow coast, dramatically so as we moved further north... disembarking at Connolly... crossing the road to Graingers or The North Star for a quick pint... strolling through the north inner city... stopping to eat our packed lunch in Mountjoy Square if the weather was decent... squeezing through the narrow turnstiles... the crumbling concrete stands... the smell of piss in the toilets... the perennial optimism before the game, the perennial disappointment afterwards... and then the long trek home when it seemed like we were following a funeral cortege...

Of course, the previous year had been very different...

Damian Fitzhenry, Ger Cush, Sean Flood,
Rod Guiney , Liam Dunne,
Colm Kehoe, Billy Byrne,
Martin Storey John O’Connor,
Tom Dempsey, George O'Connor,
Adrian Fenlon and Larry O'Gorman,
Rory McCarthy, Larry Murphy, Garry Laffan,
Eamon Scallan ,Dave Guiney ,
Declan Ruth, (A)Jim Byrne,
Shane Carley, Paul Finn,
Tom Kehoe, are the team,
and the man that dared to dream his
name was Liam Griffin

Seamus Kavanagh, Joe Kerns, MJ Reck
and all the rest the brave young men of 96
will be remembered with the best

but that was a very different day, and a very different story, which we will get to, eventually.

I was standing on there, waiting for the train to arrive. It was late. I stifled a yawn as a railway worker passed, and he took my seeming impatience as a query. “There is a problem with the crossing at Merrion Gates. The wind is blowing the barriers all over the place.” “It’s a fair strong wind, alright”, I offered, and with a mutual nod we parted; he went on about his business, and I went back to waiting.

The wind, after all, was the reason I was here in Connolly Station. Usually my weekend commute started in Bray, which meant the train was already full, leaving me to stand at the end of the carriage, an area constantly befouled with smokers holding their cigarettes out the window. Today, the strong wind had encouraged the management to prematurely close the call centre where I worked - the metal roof was rattling, and the noise generated by frequent gusts made our job all but impossible. So, I hopped a DART towards the city in the hope of securing a seat for the journey to Wexford.

The students that made up a sizable chunk of the usual travelling public had already adjourned to the provinces for the holidays, so that for once the grubby cement and tile platform was visible; scuff marks, grime and rain stains. The communal warmth and shelter of the crowd was missing too, and this wind carried pinpricks of icy air, bombarding the exposed faces of the hardy would-be-passengers.

- o O o -

The train arrived, an hour late, which was tardy even by Irish Rail standards. A handful of passengers disembarked, some of them wrapping scarves around their mouths and noses as they braved the elements. In a concession to the weather, we were allowed on the train while it was being prepared for the journey southward - the air was warm and still. A sole cleaner moved from carriage to carriage, paying lip service to the idea of removing the detritus of the most recent trip.

I settled in to a seat, resting my feet on the lukewarm radiator. I had a newspaper sticking out of my pocket, and a paperback in my bag, but they could wait - a comfortable nap would do for the moment.

poem: oíche nollaig na mban

2011-01-06T12:38:00.002-05:00

In Ireland, the Feast of the Epiphany is also know as "Little Christmas", or "Women's Christmas" - in the Irish language "Nollaig Na mBan".

I remember studying this poem in school.

Oíche Nollaig Na mBan

Bhí fuinneamh sa stoirm a éalaigh aréir.
Aréir oíche Nollaig na mBan,
As gealt-teach iargúlta 'tá laistiar den ré
Is do scréach tríd an spéir chughainn 'na gealt
Gur ghíosc geataí comharsan mar ghogallach gé,
Gur bhúir abhainn slaghdánach mar tharbh,
Gur mhúchadh mo choinneal mar bhuille ar mo bhéal
A las 'na splanc obann an fhearg

Ba mhaith liom go dtiocfadh an stoirm sin féin
An oíche go mbeadsa go lag
Ag filleadh abhaile ó rince an tsaoil
Is solas an pheaca ag dul as,
Go líonfaí gach neomat le liúirigh ón spéir,
Go ndéanfaí den domhan scuaine scread,
Is ná cloisfinn an ciúnas ag gluaiseacht fám dhéin,
Ná inneall an ghluaisteáin ag stad.

Seán Ó Riordáin

Update:

I didn't have time to post my own translation this morning, but fortunately, my friend and neighbor, renowned Irish language scholar Antóin Ó Cléirigh sent me the following, which is much superior to any translation that I might have written:

The Eve of Little Christmas

There was vigour in the storm that escaped last night
Last night, the eve of Little Christmas
From a remote madhouse behind the moon
And screamed through the sky to us like a maniac
So that the neighbour's gate creaked like the gaggling of geese,
So that the snuffled river bellowed like bull,
'Til my candle was extinguished like a smack in the mouth
That ignited my anger in a sudden spark

I would like that that self-same storm would come
The night when i will be weak
Returning home from the dance of life
With the light of sin declining,
That every minute would be filled with cries from the sky,
That the world become a procession of screams,
And that I wouldn't hear the silence sneak up on me.
Or the engine of the car stopping.

poem: for what died the sons of róisín?

2010-11-23T19:07:00.000-05:00

In the light of current events in Ireland, this piece of writing by Luke Kelly has become something of an anthem. I have underlined a couple of lines of the poem below, and repeat them here:

Will German, French or Dutch inscribe the epitaph of Emmet?
When we have sold enough of Ireland to be but strangers in it.

For what died the sons of Róisín, was it fame?
For what died the sons of Róisín, was it fame?
For what flowed Ireland's blood in rivers,
That began when Brian chased the Dane,
And did not cease nor has not ceased,
With the brave sons of '16,
For what died the sons of Róisín, was it fame?

For what died the sons of Róisín, was it greed?
For what died the sons of Róisín, was it greed?
Was it greed that drove Wolfe Tone to a paupers death in a cell of cold wet stone?
Will German, French or Dutch inscribe the epitaph of Emmet?
When we have sold enough of Ireland to be but strangers in it.
For what died the sons of Róisín, was it greed?

To whom do we owe our allegiance today?
To whom do we owe our allegiance today?
To those brave men who fought and died that Róisín live again with pride?
Her sons at home to work and sing,
Her youth to dance and make her valleys ring,
Or the faceless men who for mark and dollar,
Betray her to the highest bidder,
To whom do we owe our allegiance today?

For what suffer our patriots today?
For what suffer our patriots today?
They have a language problem, so they say,
How to write "No Trespass" must grieve their heart full sore,
We got rid of one strange language now we are faced with many, many more,
For what suffer our patriots today?

teaser: nanowrimo

2010-11-01T22:55:00.000-04:00

A few years ago I heard of the NaNoWriMo concept - designating November as National Novel Writing Month. I'm doing the whole Movember thing too, but I'll deal with that in my other blog.

This excerpt is from my first day's work. You'll have to wait for the paperback to read the rest...

Christmas Eve 1997

For me, Platform Five was Connolly Station. Even before I moved to Dublin, it was a fixture in the firmament of my life’s highlights, the day of a hurling match: an early morning walk to the North Station, which really was like a scene from ‘Dancing at The Crossroads’...

Well I remember as a young boy
The beginning of September
We were standing at the station
Waiting for a train.

There was priests and Christian Brothers
There was nuns and Reverend Mothers
There was Guards and drunks and others
But everyone was just the same

Well they came from Enniscorthy
From New Ross and Ferns and Gorey
There was busses from Bunclody
There was horses, carts and all

the track following the course of the Slaney, later hugging the County Wicklow coast, dramatically so as we moved further north... disembarking at Connolly... crossing the road to Graingers or The North Star for a quick pint... strolling through the north inner city... stopping to eat our packed lunch in Mountjoy Square if the weather was decent... squeezing through the narrow turnstiles... the crumbling concrete stands... the smell of piss in the toilets... the perennial optimism before the game, the perennial disappointment afterwards... and then the long trek home when it seemed like we were following a funeral cortege...

Of course, the previous year had been very different...

Damian Fitzhenry, Ger Cush, Sean Flood,
Rod Guiney , Liam Dunne,
Colm Kehoe, Billy Byrne,
Martin Storey John O’Connor,
Tom Dempsey, George O'Connor,
Adrian Fenlon and Larry O'Gorman,
Rory McCarthy, Larry Murphy, Garry Laffan,
Eamon Scallan ,Dave Guiney ,
Declan Ruth, (A)Jim Byrne,
Shane Carley, Paul Finn,
Tom Kehoe, are the team,
and the man that dared to dream his
name was Liam Griffin

Seamus Kavanagh, Joe Kerns, MJ Reck
and all the rest the brave young men of 96
will be remembered with the best

but that was a very different day, and a very different story, which we will get to, eventually.

I was standing on there, waiting for the train to arrive. It was late. I stifled a yawn as a railway worker passed, and he took my seeming impatience as a query. “There is a problem with the crossing at Merrion Gates. The wind is blowing the barriers all over the place.” “It’s a fair strong wind, alright”, I offered, and with a mutual nod we parted; he went on about his business, and I went back to waiting.

The wind, after all, was the reason I was here in Connolly Station. Usually my weekend commute started in Bray, which meant the train was already full, leaving me to stand at the end of the carriage, an area constantly befouled with smokers holding their cigarettes out the window. Today, the strong wind had encouraged the management to prematurely close the call centre where I worked - the metal roof was rattling, and the noise generated by frequent gusts made our job all but impossible. So, I hopped a DART towards the city in the hope of securing a seat for the journey to Wexford.

The students that made up a sizeable chunk of the usual travelling public had already adjourned to the provinces for the holidays, so that for once the grubby cement and tile platform was visible; scuff marks, grime and rain stains. The communal warmth and shelter of the crowd was missing too, and this wind carried pinpricks of icy air, bombarding the exposed faces of the hardy would-be-passengers.

about: scrabble dictionary

2010-09-27T12:16:00.000-04:00

A very cool little widget from Collins...

poem: vampire

2010-09-20T17:37:00.000-04:00

With all the supernatural heros in the public conscience, ranging from 'True Blood’ to 'The Twilight Saga', I decided to resurrect an old piece titled 'Vampire'… I wonder if I have one called 'Werewolf' stashed somewhere?

It is night when I awake.
The darkness deeply invades my every pore.
I enjoy the silence and stillness.

The future enrages further.
A trillion billion particles fuel the well-lit tumult.
The world is open for business.

Contemplation runs a shiver
Up my spineless spine, and back down again.
My dictionary is incomplete.

Indecisive haste sways me.
I try to sway myself in sympathy with sound.
Melancholy, lullaby, silent.

Then the sun comes up, and I hide my face.
It's radiance burns welts
Of fear and redemption.

071

fiction: the last of real dublin

2010-08-21T11:26:00.001-04:00

I wrote this piece fourteen years ago, as an entry for a short story competition run by a now defunct evening newspaper, in conjunction with Smithwicks. The characters are from a series of Smithwicks TV commercials that ran at the time. "The Gravediggers” is a real pub in Glasnevin, Dublin.

The Gravediggers was busy, which meant that either someone was dead, or Ireland were playing a soccer match. It was a Friday in December, so it couldn’t be a soccer match. Who was dead this time, and it only the week before Christmas?

I had only got off the plane at eleven o’clock. There was no-one at me ma’s, so I left the suitcase with Mrs. Casey next door. She said all that stuff about hardly recognising me, but I reminded her that I had only been gone a year. She said Australia was a long way. I smiled and said goodbye.

Old Kavanagh was behind the bar. Someone important must be dead. Pat hadn’t set foot in the place after handing the reins over to Junior. It was Junior that spotted me. “Pint of Smithwicks”, I called. He came over for a quick chat. “Terrible about poor Jack, wasn’t it?” My face must have went chalk white. “You mean Whispering Jack?” “Of course, you wouldn’t have heard. Only home for Christmas, are you?” “Yeah, just flew in this morning. What happened him?” “Had a stroke, the first week of October. Never really got the better of it.” I shook my head in disbelief, and exchanged my money for the pint. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the residents, in the corner. I turned to face them, and offered a nod of recognition. Fred indicated the empty chair. I made my way through the crowd, shaking the outstretched hands. Fred, Glasses, No Calls. “Where’s the woman?” I asked Glasses. “Over with Jack’s missus”, he answered.

As the afternoon wore on we got to remembering the good old days. Fred said that this was the first time the old crowd had been in here since the summer. Junior had got in one of those big tellies, and was showing the Sky Sports. That attracted all that young crowd down from the University. Soon he had a jukebox, and some fellow playing records on a Thursday night. Jack, Lord have mercy on him, lost heart in the place after that. He was still there at half ten of a morning for his pint, after the breakfast. It wasn’t the same though. Glasses put on an imitation of Jack at this point, “The Dublin I was young in is disappearing. Soon it will be all gone, and so will all the people who lived in it.” I nodded solemnly, “Never a truer word.” I was only gone a year, but I could still see the tide of progress sweeping across the city. Disco music in pubs is all right for New York or London, but let Dublin alone!

“You’ve been quiet all afternoon, Doyler”, accused No Calls. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking back to the old times. I can remember the day I was eighteen. Me da brought me down here at twenty past ten. Jack was there, outside the door, waiting for the clock behind the bar to chime. “Well, young fella”, Jack said to me. “Don’t be calling me no young fella, mister”, I said to him, “It’s my birthday and I’m eighteen.” Jack and me da smiled, and looked at each other funny - I suppose it was what you’d call “exchanging a knowing look”.

The old man opened the door on the stroke of the half hour. Jack strolled into the place like a king might walk around his royal gardens. Kavanagh gets behind the bar, and the scene is set for the business of the day. “The usual, and a pint for the young fella”, he says, winking at me da. The three of us sat at the bar, and talked about the football. I was all into the football that year, after meeting Kevin Moran in the school. He was around teaching us how to pick up the ball properly, and all that.

“Did Jack ever work?” asks Fred. “He’d been a gentlemen of leisure for as long as I can remember”, says Glasses, “But he’s wasn’t much more than retiring age.” “Didn’t he get attacked one time out at the hospital, by some madman?” I offered. “Yeah, when he used to be working on the radio with the ambulance lads. Left the door of his office open, and this escaped looney comes in, threatening to kill him and all.”

Junior brought around a few sandwiches in the evening. The crowd was starting to thin out a bit now. People were heading in to town for a last little bit of Christmas shopping. Then a few of the student crowd came in, with accents as thick as their da’s wallets. Doused with aftershave to keep down the smell of the countryside. Laughing and joking on a serious occasion like this. Had they no respect at all?

By half ten even the young lads were gone. Heading in to some disco in town, no doubt. Then me ma came in. “Sean Doyle! Is this where you’ve been all day, and I worried sick about you? Where’s Orla and my grandchildren?” “Mother”, I says, “You shouldn’t be worrying. I’m thirty years old, and well able to look after myself. Orla and the kids are gone to see her mother in Sydney, on the way. They’ll be here on Monday morning.” “Well, finish that drink, and come on home with me, I want to lock the place up for the night.” Some things never change! I finished the pint, “Tomorrow evening, lads.” They raised their glasses in mock salute. I could hear a murmur of laughter as soon as they thought I was out of earshot.

-oOo-

I was there, standing outside, at twenty past ten, on my own, humming… I realised, “Ring a ring a rosy, as the light declined…” Junior was five minutes late. “Two pints.” I set one of them on the bar, in front of Jack’s spot. I raised mine in silent tribute, under my breath, “Here’s to Whispering Jack; the last of real Dublin."

poem: at george ross’ graveside

2010-08-09T09:17:00.000-04:00

On August 10^th last, my wife’s brother, George Ross Cramer, took his own life. He was 24, and today would have been his 25^th birthday. I never got to meet this remarkable and talented man, whom I would have been privileged to have as a brother-in-law. Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam (May his soul be on God's right side).

I wrote this piece after my first visit to the Moravian Cemetery on Staten Island, where he is buried.

At George Ross' Graveside

Flowers, balloons, and the trappings of mourning
Tussle with the sombre stones and crosses.
The evening breeze draughts sadness across the lawns;
Sunshine sprinkles light among the mosaic of graves.

"This isn't how it is supposed to be."
I inhale my father-in-law's despair,
And taste helplessness as I breathe out.
He whispers again, "It's not right!"

I hold my wife's hand, mimicking her gentle tears.
Her brother lies beneath us, cold and dead.
He should have been my brother-in-law,
But I grieve for his shared memories, instead.

A security man drives by and stops,
His voice a study in sympathy,
Affording us time and passage through locked gates,
Before the cemetery closes for the night.

On the trip home, I reflect on Saint Luke:
Let the dead bury their own dead.
A part of my wife, departed with her brother,
Remains behind us, like the setting sun.

327

fiction: November

2010-07-27T16:18:00.003-04:00

This is the first part of a longer piece I tried to write as part of NaNoWriMo, a few years back. Maybe I’ll get around to finishing the whole thing this year. I was reminded of it today when “SAD” (Seasonal Affective Disorder) came up in a conversation with a neighbor.

2007

I

Dark nights brought dark thoughts. Days stacked like dominoes, falling into each other, collapsing into a sawtooth flat-line of misery. Such was November, the first month of the Celtic New Year.

October ended with a bang, quite literally – a wonderful Halloween parade followed by a loud, percussive fireworks display. For those few short hours, the clouds over Dave's head seemed a little less hostile. Adjourning to the closest bar, he restored his usual level of gloom with whiskey chasing Guinness. In the private laughter of the couples, in the smiling faces of the children enjoying a rare treat, in the efficient effort of the staff – he saw everything that was missing from his life.

He looked out the window. The bridge across the river was festooned with decorative lights, twinkling as the wind caught them. The slow wide flow into the estuary called out to him. He wondered what it would feel like – cold, wet, welcoming, final?

He was in love, but she had seen the darkness that tortured him, and grown afraid. She was sweet, beautiful, thoughtful and troubled. He hadn't managed to uncover her hurt, but he knew it was there – a cancer eating away at her self-confidence. Every time he thought of her, the same image came in to his head – holding her, telling her everything was going to be fine, drawing comfort from comforting her, strengthening his confidence and courage by virtue of her very presence. They hadn't spoken in weeks, text messages and little notes on social networking websites don't count. Her profile picture made him smile and cry at the once, several times a day. All he had was an image on a screen and a fantasy in his head. Was it his own idealised invention that enthralled him, or did he actually love the real woman behind it? He closed his eyes and whispered her name under his breath.

II
Dave's cellphone woke him at eight. Why did he bother setting the alarm? It wasn't like he had anything to do, apart from checking his email, hoping against hope that there would be one from Michelle, suggesting that they met for a coffee and a chat. Every text, every message he sent her, he made sure to demonstrate that he still cared. Reassuring her when she was nervous, offering advice when she was confused, cracking a joke when she was down.

Those few weeks they had been together had been the happiest of his life. He'd smiled at everyone, enjoyed the simple pleasures like waking up in the morning and jumping out of bed. His phone had never been busier – sweet 'good nights' before he fell asleep, cheerful 'good mornings' as soon as he woke. She had turned one of the most difficult moments of his life into one of the most wonderful – he was trying to explain that he was afraid to touch her, that he'd been through some terrible things, but that he cared about her and that she was beautiful – she held his hand, kissed his cheek and told him it would be alright.

He threw on some clothes, and stumbled downstairs. The postman had been around early. There was a single white envelope on the mat, with his name on it. He scooped it up and headed for the kitchen. The remains of the burger and chips he'd brought home last night were sitting on the table – he scrunched up the brown bag and threw it at the bin. It landed on top of the banana skins and crisp wrappers, a two-point shot. He put on the kettle and opened the letter. It was from a hospital in Dublin.

“Dear David,

Regarding your recent attendance for interview. We regret to inform you that you have been unsuccessful on this occasion. Thank you for your interest...”, blah, blah, blah...

Another one for his impressive collection of rejection letters. No one wanted him – not the hospitals, not the local IT companies, not the civil service. He knew he was good enough for the jobs he applied for, but something about interviews spooked him. He'd worked so hard on so-called 'soft-skills', and could deal with anyone or anything, except, of course, interviews.

Kettle boiled, coffee made, he sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Where had it all gone wrong? He tried to remember his happy childhood, but it hadn't actually happened…

…Summer 1979. Watching 'Batman' on a Saturday morning. The sun streaming in through the tall window, so it must have been summer, just weeks before he started school…

…Summer 1987. Standing up with his scout troop colleagues as their names were announced as the winners of the regional competition. Crying as they marched towards the altar to be presented with their trophies. Beforehand, the scout leader had been unsure whether to put himself and Derek on the team, they were very young, not yet twelve…

…Autumn 1990. Exorcising the torment of a difficult year in school. The Intermediate Certificate exams had been held during Ireland's first foray into the soccer World Cup in Italy. The teachers weren't hopeful about his performance, one of them confidently predicting that he would fail. Scoring the top marks in the whole school was a miracle…

This highlight reel, brief and unrealistic, wandered through his head as he waited for the coffee to cool down. These were moments of light in an otherwise dismal life. Growing up had sucked the joy out of him.

Dave didn't believe in coincidence, so he reflected on some of the events of the day before. As he'd headed home, Niamh had driven past him. Intelligent, understanding, sensible Niamh. She was the first, and one of the few, to have heard his full story. They had flirted at times, he'd written poetry for her, but it had come to an abrupt end on a dance floor. All he had to do was say something, or kiss her – he hadn't the courage or confidence to do either. They had remained casual friends for a while, but that had eventually petered out too.

During the parade he'd spotted Alan too. The man who had pretended to be his friend and confidante, who advised him how to best handle his pursuit of Niamh. The man who, one November night in 2000, had taken advantage of his despair and drunkenness to lure him in to bed.

It hadn't started then though, that was just the final nail in an ebony coffin that had been many years in the making. If he wanted to trace the very roots of his condition, illness, defect, whatever damned label it demanded or deserved, he had to go much further back – to a day he had made his parents proud.

1982
The third Sunday of November. He'd practised for the past six weeks. Bell, chalice, water and wine, second water and wine. Already he looked forward to the day he would be tall enough, old enough and trusted enough to light the candles on the altar just before mass started. That was Billy's job today, and after it was done the six of them bundled out of their pokey changing room, proud of their gleaming white soutanes. In the main sacristy they lined up opposite the imposing figure of Paddy Cummins, the parish priest. A large man, with a deep and serious voice, given to impatience and a low tolerance for the simple mistakes that children tended to make. He looked across the line of small boys, and when his eyes reached the framed copy of the altar-boy's pray, he made the sign of the cross and began reciting. The boys joined in. When it was done, they lined up in pairs, facing the heavy door that led to the church. Fr. Cummins gave the signal, so Billy pressed the button to ring electric bell. As the door opened, the sound of the congregation standing rolled like a wave along the church. The mass was straightforward and uneventful, apart from an impromptu lecture on manners, delivered (in Paddy Cummins' usual blunt style) from the pulpit, directed towards a couple of teenagers who where “acting the maggot” at the back of the church.

Dave's grandmother was in the front row, and he looked forward to calling down to see her after mass. There would be a choice of fizzy orange or lemonade, and a plate of biscuits. Maybe there would be cake or buns to mark the special occasion.

poem: do not stand at my grave and weep

2010-05-31T18:44:00.001-04:00

A timely post, on this Memorial Day

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye

poem: prayer and psalm

2010-05-08T19:27:00.002-04:00

I guess this is the first piece I have written on this new chapter, of my new life, in the New World?

I hear a gentle rhythm of prayer,
Whispered breathing as you sleep.
I smell the sweet exhale of air,
Joyously inhaling deep.
I see a floating wisp of hair;
The urge to touch, to taste, to leap.

A louder hymn, a psalm to life,
To share that rhythm with my wife.
To watch your eyes, their shining lights
A beacon in the darkest nights.

326

poem: facebook

2010-04-16T09:30:00.000-04:00

With all this recycling of my archives, isn't it about time I posted something new. Haven't been writing a whole lot lately, between one thing and another. Here is a short little piece I put together, reflecting on Facebook. I wonder if anyone else has ever written a poem about Facebook?

Life Update: It is often said that a good book can change your life, but I've managed to transform mine with the help of a mediocre poem - this one! I'm now more than halfway through my third week of marriage, and looking forward to starting my new life with my lovely wife.

Tech Update: In a nod to the all-conquering ubiquity of Facebook, I've installed RSS Graffitti on my profile, so all new posts will appear on my Facebook wall.

Acronymic laughs at deliberate gaffes;
Imagining smiles across thousands of miles.
Tapping on keys while daydreaming a squeeze;
Instantaneous communication is hardly a cure for isolation.

325 - published 03/03/2010

poem: daughter of the sun

2010-03-02T19:45:00.002-05:00

First of all, I feel like if I don't keep up at least one post a month, I may as well give up. Secondly, I know I have posted this piece before, but my recent exposure to John Banville's "The Sea" which uses some words that I find obscure, and preparing to delve into "Finnegan's Wake", reminded me of unusual words.

I've used/invented a few myself, in my time, and the first one that springs to mind is "preconsequent". Not really sure what I intend it to mean...

Anyway, I looked up the archive, and found the piece where I coined the word, originally posted three years ago.

Excuse me daughter of the sun,
Would you lie naked in long green grass
And let nature dance upon
Your body until night comes to pass?

When darkness falls would you shawl around
Yourself fibres of warm and free,
As you lie on the glory ground
Between the mountains and the sea?

Could I be the moonlight
And caress your blushing cheek?
Would it be alright
Your passioned soul to seek?

Could I give you this ring
And dare your lips to kiss?
Could I say anything
Preconsequent to this?

168