The strains of lovely music, entranced the lads and girls,
Mike COMMERCIAL and his band,
like sounds from another world.
A line of girls stood staThely along the grey- brown wall,
Being studied with cautious glances by the men across the hall.
Ah the waltzes and the foxtrots and a bit of Ceili too
Sent ripples through our heart strings and brought
sweat a pouring through.
Our partners pranced and danced with glee
till the early hours of morn
’Twas often two or three o’clock at the crowing cocks ,we scorned.
How great it was to trip around with a chap who could really dance.
With one’s head upon his shoulder and the touch of his
strong sound grasp.
But woe betide, misfortune, t‘was many another bloke
Who jumped right on our corns and nearly broke our toes.
“Will you do a whirl with me.”, says he, how right he said his words,
’Twas like being up in Carrantoole, a sheltering from wild birds.
No need for massage parlours in those far of bygone years.
Because one got more pinching ,dancing midst shouts and cheers.
Quite often there, some met their fate,
in the good old plain dance balls.
Astanding there aglowing, they got their marriage call.
They courted in the old Lodge wood, or by the Golf links rails,
Some ventured to the Churchyard with its big dark Iron gate.
Miss Corbett had a shop so nice, in the centre of the town,
We were escorted too to Bessys or the generous Mrs Browne.
We drank a soft red mineral, it was orange or lemonade,
Or icecream mixed with lime juice, Ah, it was a welcome treat.
Those boys had no great riches, but they were generous to the core,
They shared their menial earnings, and came from happy homes.
The music was soft and lulling, we had time to chat and talk,
As we danced to the glorious rhythm, of the foxtrot and the waltz.
Songs 1 hear In memory’s ear,. haunt me clear and loud,
1 can hear the strains of ‘Sweet Sixteen’ or romantic
“Now Is the Hour.’ “
‘Forever and forever, as our partners politely bowed,
1 can almost hear the music dear of
‘I wonder whose kissing him now?.
They came from Kilgaryan and Kenmare.
From Incheese and Cork’s Coolea,
From Bonane, and Tahilla, Templenoe,
Tuosist and from across the waves.
Mangerton, Letter., Black valley. Crossroads and Roughty Vale,
Cleady, Killowen and Tullig, and Cork City on Drag hunt Day.
Ah some of them dressed in grandeur, while,
others couldn’t care a dam,
They wore their Sunday caipins, and the best suits that they had.
Few owned a car . or even a bike, but they sauntered without a care,
They bid goodbye to the old dance hall and left for the U.S.A.
We sang them songs like Noreen Ban,and wished,
them on their way,
Some returned once or twice but others we ne’er saw again.
Their names we hear at Mass time.
When the good priest asks for prayers,
For John or Pat or Jim or Joe, who has died in Americae.
I feel the pain in my heart sometimes,
when I think of those good old days.
As we danced with joy, in peace and love neath the library
in Kenmare.
i‘ve danced In Crystal Ballrooms,. in luscious clubs aglow,
But the very corner of my heart is still with the long ago.
I think when Heaven. calls me, I hope it I is like that hall,
Where we danced In childish innocence, and fell in love with all.
The young folks of to day, alas, can’t hear their partners speak,
Because the music’s noisy, and dancing is not, what it used to be.
With our heads upon their shoulders. we glided o’er the foor,
Our minds were flled with a peaceful mirth,
that could not be bought for gold.
Och I could go an forever and drop a few salty tears,
Let’s hope we’ll meet In Heaven, and dance again cheek to cheek.
I can almost see the good Lord smile,
when He sees how easily pleased,
We were In those far of days gone by,
when we only knew peace and ease.
TRAIN FROM HEADFORD TO KENMARE
Sad the day they closed it ,the Railway line I mean,
We changed our train at Headford,
Coming to Dingle via Tralee.
Those were the days of boarding school,
The sadness leaving home,
But the surging joy of coming back,
Was worth its weight in gold.
The shunting train from Headford,
Had a lulling soothing sound,
Where Paddy Donoghue, God rest him,
Shook hands with all around.
Then Jimmy Donoghue, with whistle
Would blow it loud and clear,
He knew we were all excited
Just thrilled that home was near.
At Morley’s Bridge and Loo Bridge,
We knew each stone and wall,
The train would stop for water,
Giving us plenty time to talk.
The bushes by the railway side
Never looked so green and fair,
The next stop was Kilgarvan
Dan Cahill was always there.
“Ye’re home again Young People,”
He’d say in his kindly way.
“Any news,” we’d ask him, with a smile
“Ah! sure nothing strange,” he’d say.
“Oh! There’s a dance to night in Hickeys,”
We’d jump with joy to hear
“There’s a few fine lads in the village,”
Then he’d wink an eye at me.
There was no hurry in those by gone days,
No fluster, fright or speed,
Each one seemed happy so relaxed
’Twas the sound of the train ,indeed.
To day there’s music to help one sleep
Sounds of dolphins, waves and sea,
But the lulling sound of the moving train
Soothed man and bird and beast.
A great loss to our native vale,
Was the day we lost the train
As it shunted slowly in its own good time
Past Kilgarvan to Kenmare.
There was history by the railroad
Smiling faces, friendly bright,
By the mountain peaks of Kerry,
And the sounds of birds in flight.
15TH AUGUST, FAIR DAY IN KENMARE
’Twas the 15th of August in Kenmare,
And the trucks were all filled to the brim,
With geese, like young cygnets
And chickens and piglets
With horses that neighed with a grin.
Huge bulls and wee heifers,
And sheep scraggy and nervous
The men holding sticks black and long
Donned in coats and grey wellies,
Bodies healthy and well fed
Caps sideways pitched on their heads.
Going to Mass down the main street,
Was like the front lines of Aintree,
We were scared from back kicks from the cows,
Or the prod from a wild goat,reared up in Baurlan
Or smart remarks from the boys of the town.
We bought bulls eyes in Bessys,
And icecream from Hanleys,
With raspberry cordial on top,
We strolled past the courthouse,
And watched the good Travellers
/> As they spat on their palms soft and hot.
Tony Murphy looked handsome,
In his striped butcher’s apron,
As he bargained for heifer or lamb,
He told the bold jobber
That his beasts were disastrous
From the town they should surely be banned.
But the Mangerton farmer was well able for Tony,
Who pretended to walk the other way,
But back he came quickly,
When he saw fast approaching,
Paddy Dan Mick on his trail.
Ah! those were the days
When the 15th was brilliant.
Relations and friends gathered round.
’Twas there that Sean Murphy
Met his own darling Threseen
And took her away from the town.
The pub floors were covered
With saw dust and soft sand,
And straw as yellow as gold
No Park or no Sheen Lodge
Could ever compare with
The charm of the 15th of Old.
Ah! those were the good times
They are gone like the old folks,
Who lie in the grave by the Bay,
I can still see their faces
That gallant old fair day
On the 15th of August, Kenmare.
AN OLD CRAFT
Bending on one knee,
Sweat pouring down
over his torn overalls.
Breathing hard
Audible his gasps.
Occasionally rubbing
the perspiration from
his furrowed brow.
He leans forward,
Clip, clip, clip,
A long carpet of
dusty soft wool
falls carelessly,
over his rubber boot,
Then turning the ewe,
Reversing her torso,
He continues to bare
her opposite side.
She bleats softly,
The cold of the air
Hits her pink red skin,
Causing a momentary
shiver, a loud sneeze.
Laying the shears
on a nearby shelf,
He pats the sheep
gently on her hind,
Saying “ be gone,
you shameless nudist,
Now I must shear
Your sire.”
THE ATTIC
Cardboard boxes, piled in bundles,
Books of every hue and kind,
Torn school books, some a memory,
Finger marks of each treasured child.
Mouse traps, cobwebs, a rusty oil lamp,
A radio brown, gone silent too,
Resting on a stool that tumbled,
Memories in each tiny groove,
Granda’s coat, the creases linger,
Just as if he’s hid inside,
Poems and stories, Nanna told us
Hidden in a tape, still bright.
Roisin’s teddy, with one eye missing,
Maura’s doll, she looks alive,
Se and Kevin’s dusty game board,
What Aquinas wore, when an altar boy.
The attic dark holds secrets many,
Things we love, could ne’er throw away,
We leave them there to cherish always,
And sort right through them one fine day.
DREAMS OF A LITTLE BOY OF FIVE
The world to him is the garden
Round his door,
Blue skies are hard as icing on a cake.
The moon is just a golden ball,
Smiling face he sees,
To him, the moon is very real.
Then, he plans to go some day,
Way up high ,In a mighty spaceship,
Made in his own bedroom small,
But then the milkman blocks his view,
“O! to drive a van, as white, as snow”
To wear a cap with star in front”
A pilot, too he deems to be
To speed through clouds,
Of frosted sugar white,
Yet now, he dreams of the coffee shop
Down by the corner.
With all the lovely things he likes,
Just for a night to hide amongst
Its pale brown counters;
The very thought makes two eyes shine,
Two lips, they move in happy anticipation.
Until he dreams, A garda big and strong
Creeps quietly, slowly, neath the window,
He, himself is the mighty gangster
There inside, alone, he tears apart
The coloured boxes,
All lovely things
Around the foor are strewn.
One great big mess of
Chocolates, cakes and pies. . . .
He startles, when he hears a piercing siren,
some house distressed
with fames and treacherous fire,
That tower of strength,
With bells a ringing,
Flees to that awful scene of strife.
The little eyes see only painted glamour
He himself, is the freman climbing high,
Leaping, sweltering, rushing, daring,
He, the hero, who never ,never tires,
A mind so full
Of great and wild adventures
In the lovely brain ,of a little boy of five.
BRIAN BORU’S ADDRESS ON THE EVE OF THE BATTLE OF CLONTARF (22ND APRIL 1014.)
My Kinsmen from sweet Erin’s Isle,
To-morrow, we’ll fight and win,
And beat those tyrant foreigners,
Those pagan Northern men.
Who crossed the sea to plunder,
Insulted monk and maid,
Sitric Sly,Sigurd the Stout,
For their deeds, we’ll make them pay.
Maolmordha can’t be trusted,
Maelseachlann is a friend,
Who will lead the Tolka Division,
And help our clan to win.
Dalcassaians led by Murrough,
My son, who knows no fear,
My brothers four behind him,
Flann, Conor, Donough and Teigue.
Not forgetting my youthful heir,
Turlough of the mighty deeds.
Accompanied by Motha,
Tall with a boyish grin,
Grandson loved and cherished ,
By Deise’s fighting King.
Number three Division,
From across the Shannon’s waves,
Maelruanie and Teigue _’Kelly,
Connaught’s mighty braves.
To-morrow is Good Friday
And 1014, the year,
With the blessing of Christ’s Crucifix,
We’ll defeat those Danish men.
With Sword and Cross and mighty strokes,
And God sure on our side,
We’ll drive them o’er the Irish Sea,
Like deer, they’ll flee in fright.
BUNKER BOMBING IN BAGHDAD. FEBRUARY 13TH 1991.
To-day, I cried, tears of a mother,
In union with many mothers, whose dead babies
lay in smidereens in their arms, victims of
unscrupulous bombings, loud, harsh, scary,
Bombings of underground bunkers, where little children
Once played happily, oblivious of man made
killer monsters
Which accurately mix scrap with their baby flesh,
Bombs, targeted by men, who know the joy of fatherhood
And the soft touch of a child’s harmless grasp,
Happy to know ,their own offspring and spouses
are carefully at home in warm heated houses.
They term their deed as “mission excellently performed”
Oh God! how could such a deed be called “excellent”?
A mass of baby curls, entwined with dead soft baby flesh,
&
nbsp; All united in one big bundle of destroyed humanity.
No war is worth such a scene, no sheik or his millions
Or his oil fields worth such a sacrifice.
I cry to visualise those hundreds of innocent babes
Clutching their mothers’ dead bodies,
Scattered in rubble in an underground bunker,
western atrocity,
Soldiers, pilots, presidents, no victory
will ever earn the name of a “Just War,”
Instead history will hate you
And the reprimand of God awaits you for your
disillusioned victory
Your “Excellent deeds” a sheer disaster.
CATASTROPHE
(AN AIR CRASH)OVER LOCKERBIE
Hushed silence, gasps of bewilderment
The calm voice of a dedicated pilot.
Prayers, sobs, variety of dialects
Raised to an extremely frightening buzz,
Blazing tongues of fire enveloping
The grey silver wing of the glistening plane,
Dark smoke casting a trail of on coming destruction
The evening sky, a furnace of red, far above the world,
Where down below humans walked and chatted,
Oblivious of the bird like danger lurking overhead.
Suddenly, a loud explosion,
which sent birds, animals, humans
scurrying in the little village down below,
A rush of human feet, but no place for protection
from the portions of that man made bird,
which tumbled from the heavens with fiery slaughter,
Heedless of the massacre inside its womb.
Human flesh intermingled with steel and grass,
Dust returned to dark brown soil,
uncaring where it landed,
Unconscious of creed, colour or nationality,
Soldier ,civilian, tradesman doctor,
Those who survived were glad to be alive.
Broken bones, scarred bodies, numbed hearts.
(January 1989.)
GRANNY’S SPRING WELL
The spring well in the shrub covered quarry,
Shining mirror, liquid mirage,
On a bed of grey-white pebbles
Gave forth ,refreshing water,
Used from birth to death,
To wash all human blemishes,
Red blood to cold sweat.
A progressive farmer came,
Ambition his aim,
He deemed to stop the water’s flow
From its glasheen home,
Smothering it at base,
Leaving dried up pebbles
A dull heap in a dark hole,
Midst briar and bramble.
Causing an old lady’s sad dismay.
Then he, the learned one,
Poems for All Occasions Page 6