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 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”
after Flann O’Brien
by Anonymous, Longford
When your heart feels very strange and your leg it will not rest,
And you are feeling a trifle frisky,
There’s a piece of advice that you must remember best:
IF ONE’S EYEBROW BE ITCHY, YOU WILL BE DRINKING WHISKEY.
The upset tum and the fevered brow are very frightful travails,
But a remedy that will work briskly:
A generous sup of flat 7-up will cure what ails, but
IF ONE’S EYEBROW BE ITCHY, YOU WILL BE DRINKING WHISKEY.
Itches descend and they truly offend without reason,
So commit to your memory this key:
A hale and a hearty cure no matter what the season:
IF ONE’S EYEBROW BE ITCHY, YOU WILL BE DRINKING WHISKEY.
Do you know about Granard’s greatest love story – that of local lady Kitty Kiernan & her fiancée Michael Collins, General of the Free State Army.
Many letters were exchanged between Michael & Kitty documenting not only their love story but also the social & political happenings of the time.
At Knights and Conquests heritage center in Granard they have dedicated an exhibition room to this great story.
by Tom Carty, Galway
A Halloween Game
Eleven pieces cut, a sixpence as forfeit
The ten others under pillow kept
Those who on it to silence sworn
Until the morning after which they had slept
Should they speak before the mornings dawn
And they to the floor their blanket they had tossed
They broke the Yarrow pledge…
Their challenge and their sixpence was lost.
Oh, so many cared for their comfort that night
And other such tricks to get them to speak
So simple pleasures in a time now past
When folk their fun did seek!!!
Should the sleeper their whisht manage to hold
Who they dreamed of that night would be their spouse it was said
How many men dreamed of a comely cailin on such night
Who dreamed herself of another dashing blade, not them, instead!
Tom’s poem ties in with the North Longford Lore of a game played on Halloween. It involved cutting the yarrow and reciting this verse, that night you would dream of your future spouse!
In Cáit’s collection, there are several references to the Yarrow including the verse “Good morrow, good morrow, my pretty fair yarrow! I pray before this time to-morrow You will tell who my true love shall be. The clothes that he wears, and the name that he bears, And the day that he’ll come to wed me”
Tom publishes poetry, some based on folklore on writingsinrhyme.com
by Mike Gallagher, Mayo & Kerry
Achill Aiteanns
The Aiteanns on Achill inhabit wastelands,
rough pastures, heaths and rocky places;
cling to sea cliffs, hillsides and the verges
of bogs; with fellow native, humankind, they
lean into salt laden winds, scratch their way up
hard-fought, steeple slopes, jealously shield
the clois, the haggard, the stripes, even
the stones; are wary of interlopers,
knotweed, rhododendron, giant cabbages
and other invasive sorts; have shared,
down centuries, the harsh infertility of
this fallow isle, pulling together its loose,
measly topsoil and enriching it with
nitrogen-bearing root nodes. On hot
Summer days, it wafts the Achill air with
coconut scent, rends the Achill air with
pops of exploding seed pods; blue-green
branchlets hug the Achill earth, snuggle it
in a canopy of rigid, furrowed thorns.
It is, as ever, a lop-sided alliance, this bargain
between man and nature – one taking, one giving:
Thatch for the widow’s cot; beaten to pulp ‘tween
mallet and stone, a bran for sheep or stock;
coppiced and pollarded and scythed, each acre
a winters feed for six hungry horses, ’twas said;
the young shoots, forage once for piebalds along
the long acre; its leaves add colour and flavour
to Irish whiskey, make wine and tea, as well.
Its besoms once Saula houses swept; foundations
for bog roads in Shraheens, too; a chimney brush
with sugawns pulled, down and up, up and down;
sprinkled sprigs kept mouse and vole at bay
from bobbed-up shoots, and seeds, soaked, rampant
fleas repelled; ash of whin, when mixed with lard
made soap that soon did dirt discard; furze blossom dye
did Easter eggs adorn and young shoots greened ribbed sock
and pretty petticoat; gorse wood was grand for kitchen tools
and garden gnomes – non-toxic and would not rot;
precious bearts from tramcock butts dried on its August
bush; scarce pollen for bees it yields through Spring; dense
cover for Warbler, Stonechat and Whinchat, too, except
the Wren which it betrays so easily on each Saint
Stephens Day; in the Achill of my youth, protection
for Sandybanks rabbits, before we went genteel
and swapped burrows for golf holes; dinner for the
Double-striped Pug moth, but refuge for diner Robin, too –
Nature’s sword, as ever, double-edged; in olden days,
a purgative; a cure for scarlet fever, jaundice, all ailments
of the spleen and nasty kidney stones; release from
horse’s worms, besides, (only half the dose for man, one would
suppose); shelter belts on sodded walls, stock-proof but, sadly,
not sheep-proof (is anything?); a barrier to mystical forces –
scatter petals at window or door to keep the fairies out; a sprig
kept under thatch or over rafter would surely bring you luck; place
a plant in the dung heap during May to multiply the crop; a garland
around the churn would ward off the evil eye and cattle chased
through aiteann would never, ever die. And as you stagger
homeward, a spray behind your lapel would halt the certain stumble.
A twig in the feeding stall will foil sterility,
A sprig in the brides bouquet will ensure fertility,
(no mention of the groom or his ability!); and
kissing is always out, when blossoms are not about!
Cameras, smart phones all around, Dooniver, Dookinella,
Achill Sound, Ballinasally, Cloisríd, Keel, Cloughmore,
Bunacurry, Cashel, Keem, The Shore; Kildownet, Pollagh,
Dooagh, Dugort, Croghan, Minaun, old Slievemore,
take landscape photos, catch all the action,
snap scarlet fuchsia and yellow aiteann,
sharp, cutting and lacerating,
like its Island hosts,
thorny, prickly, quick to flare,
glow warm beyond compare.