by Eoin Moynihan, Longford
Isn’t it soft the skin is on you.
Aren’t those hands of yours so clean.
Has your back never bent to ponder
upon wheelbarrow or heavy beam?
Have your eyes been ensnared by some beauty?
It may be; your hand lent purpose to a plume.
Is it poetry that unsettles you,
seduced by some lingering full moon?
Be that as it may,
Life will hold sway
And it’s bother, you will not flee.
For it be neither soft hands nor a soft heart
that set us free.
by Chuck Kramer, Chicago U.S.A.
Ideas are sparks of creativity
leaping from the fire of imagination
and sometimes shower the thinker
with jingling coins
but beware the sparks—
they may burn what they touch
leaving fingers scorched and scarred
as smoking thoughts drift off
over a pocket full of bitter ash
by Áine Leddy, New York
The cows were dry again this morn
Those fairy mischiefs doing their worst
With guilt and shame I was torn
My whole clan would feel the thirst
The spancel should have been installed
Before I closed my eyes to sleep
But I had milking churns to scald
And left gap open to fairy leap
I will do better I decided
In the duel with the little man
My efforts would not be derided
No more empty milking can
So move along you little louse
No more free milk around this house
Áine based her poem on the folklore “Fairies sometimes milk cows. To prevent this tie a hair spancel in the cow gap.”
by G. Slamon, Brixton, U.K.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush
A wise proverb tells us of blackbird and thrush
Though if truth be told I don’t quite understand
Why two birds in the bush equal one in the hand
For a bird in the hand it will tremble and quake
And out of its terror no song will it make
While the birds in the bush they will twitter and trill
And alive with their freedom will seldom stand still
But hither and thither and upwards and down
They will flutter and flitter and frolic and clown
And light up the hedgerows and colourful songs
While the caught bird in silence and stiffness it longs
So open your hands wide and let the bird fly
And find its way back to its place in the sky
And with it your spirit will soar with delight
And rejoice in the freedom of a proverb set right
by Aisling Lee, Longford
Ruadhan Davies (10) lives in New York, U.S.A. Ruadhan based his comic on the folklore piece “A crowing hen should not be sold or killed. She should be left at a cross-roads. She will bring misfortune about any place she is. The same applies to a whistling woman.”
by Attracta Fahy, Galway
The Old People Believed
to cut the horns off a black snail, would rid you
of earache.
In the sixties folklore didn’t appeal to my palate.
Slugs taken from their natural habitat gave me
creeps, my skin crawled, stomach gagged, as boys
dared me to play with slimy creatures, worse
than any ache I couldn’t decide if I felt sympathy,
or disgust. Live, and let live became the motto
I used for divinity. This betrayed what my brothers
deemed to be brave. No fear of climbing trees, chasing
through graveyards at midnight, tying scarfs to headstones
just to prove – I wasn’t afraid.
I imagined the snail bleeding to death, his family cursing,
dooming me to a terrible fate, scared of not having peace,
I never complained of earache again.
I liked sugar, mindful not to eat much as I’d wished,
it caused worms. Imagining slithery organisms
inside my stomach was nauseating, the cure even worse,
to sit with a bowl of oatmeal, mother spinning charms
over your head, inviting these white squirmy, maggots
out of your mouth. I stopped eating sugar.
Rubbing a snail, it’s smear all over my finger to be rid
of a wart didn’t entreat me either. I was a martyr!
With five brothers– it wouldn’t look good to let down
your guard, scream. Being a girl, weakness enough.
I hid a glass coke bottle in the haggard – ‘keep it secret,’
my mother suggested, creating new folklore to relieve
the stress. My wart disappeared.
‘We don’t need to kill I explained,’ already enough
on our farm, lambs, pigs, chickens–
‘It’s normal, survival,’ my father explained,
‘but, it must be humane, that or starve.’
Only humans were safe, and I wasn’t so sure, still,
we had confessions. That’s how it was in the old days,
a cure for everything except fear, and remorse.
Repentance, or plenary indulgence didn’t remedy
for me. Earaches, and warts, were tolerable, guilt,
empathy for all life, can be an infliction.
Attracta’s poem is based on cures in the folklore collection:
cure for EARACHE: Get a black snail, cut off both horns with one cut instant cure.
cure for WARTS: Get a black snail without looking for it, rub it on warts three times, then hang on a white-thorn bush. As snail withers warts will disappear.
by M Ni B., Longford
THE ” GOOD PEOPLE”
Down from their secret haunt they come, A-trooping down the hill,
green jackets, red caps, white owl feather
– proud and bold they step together
The yellow moon doth guide them, as implishly they leap
their wizened crinkled faces, as old as rivers deep.
At midnight ’round the red hot coal, they toast their tiny feet,
sipping clean Spring water, they search for loosened teeth.
They frown on itchy noses, a bed that’s facing West,
a web they love to weave around, the Stranger or the Guest.
Theý’re still around, those little folk, who are both wild and free,
don’t lend an egg or spill the salt,
for certain they will point and say
”these humans are at fault”
by Aoife Brady, Sydney, Australia
Covid’s gift
Big houses, new cars, fancy holidays, prestigious jobs. A legacy of success, importance and wealth.
Our world valued the external appearance. Survival of the fittest. Work hard, play hard. Keeping up with the Joneses.
COVID doesn’t care. It targets all. Indiscriminately. Old and young, healthy and sick.
We’ve seen the best of humanity; the kindness, compassion and generosity.
We’ve seen the worst of humanity; aggression, judgement and wilful flaunting of the rules.
Overnight the “insignificant” became the most important. The nurses, the social workers, the cleaners, the delivery drivers, selflessly putting their lives on the line to get us through.
Forced separation. Working & studying from home. The breakdown of our social habits. Our favourite cafe, bar & restaurant closed. The job losses.
Anxiety, fear, panic, concern. We felt them all. We heard our inner dialogue. The isolation forced us to confront our mental wellbeing
Mental health moved from taboo to mainstream. We learned about our inner world and how we respond to the world.
We learned the importance of meaningful connection for our emotional wellbeing. Honestly replaced pretence.
COVID’s gift is a resetting of what’s important. Our health. Our wellbeing. Who we are as people. Who are you in the post COVID world?
Carpe Diem
In olden days, ducks were an important source of food on the farm. They were locked up at night for fear of the fox, so delay in securing the door could cost disaster for the ducks and for the farmer’s family. – Kitty Hughes
Photo credit: David Jusko