by Matt Mooney
Away he’ll send on flights of doves
Through heaven’s open door
His love by Gort a’Ghleanna
In the vale of Knockanure;
He was the master and the writer
Whose gifts he left behind:
Like pride to last in his native place
And his books to feed the mind.
He loved the Fleadh’s homecoming
And the folk who travelled far
To sing and dance in the sunny Square
Or to play in any bar;
He’d always watch the marching bands
As they passed with a great hurrah!
He’d stand at his door in the evening sun
To watch the mardi gras.
Our footpaths miss his noble steps:
He was a father to the town;
His greeting marked you present-
“Conas tán tú? Tán tú ann! ”
So when you’re walking down the street
Know that we’ve only got today
And sometimes stop and chat awhile
For that was Bryan’s way.
THE GLASS BLOWER
In St.Galmier by the River Rhone,
With its mineral waters of renown,
In an atelier you’ll see a soufeur.
The furnace heat is orange bright,
So hot it has to be before he can
With taps and turns on his bench
Mould the sand on a magic wand
To any form in the master’s mind.
On the tip of the rod a body round
Builds on its stem to form the base
Of the final glass and its equilibrium.
All circles run round the rod’s end;
With his wrist he twists and twirls.
For him it spins into a vase of blue,
Snipped slim like a slender candle:
With its pouting lips and its lily look
It stands up proud of its wily master.
THE SINGNALMAN
I see him as the signalman
On the unseen tracks of time:
A family priest for all of us-
As we travel down the line.
Railway stations made him blue
When young and leaving home-
I wonder if it was his Signalman
That for so long kept him going?
He taught the boys of Wexford
By the Barrow in New Ross
And at a later time the Déise lads
In Dungarvan’s lovely town;
A chaplin in Dublin’s Liberties,
Now in Limerick nearer home;
The road that led to his priesthood
Had earlier started off in Rome.
In his vestments with a bell of brass
Before the quarter past eleven mass,
Ringing out “Come all ye within”
To that little hospital Chapel
That always has been dear to him.
St. Augustine’s “Lord we are restless
Until we rest with Thee”
He quoted freely at his Golden Jubilee.
He has always been our signalman
Along the unseen tracks of time:
A family priest for everyone
As we are travelling down the line.
TOM MOON
Tom Moon as he sat in our kitchen some days
Turned the talk into song and before very long
He’d start pacing the floor from table to door,
Look into the mirror used for Saturday shaving,
Tilt back his hat and in a voice that was deep
Sing loud with a chorus a love song sonorous;
Alas at the end of the story of loving her dearly
They ‘parted forever on the banks of the Lee.’
Later on in his life he worked in the forestry
And he lived down at the foot of the mountain;
How happy he was one day when I called to him
And he got his young daughter to dance for us.
While we drank a few bottles of stout
He sang from his heart of this beautiful lady
In the wonderful words of her lover lamenting:
Looking at her picture he’d hung on the wall
He gazed at her face and thought that if only
She was really alive and holding his hand
Like the time they were two lovers together.
Though dead and gone I think of his songs:
I hear his musical voice full of merriment.
Now I often sing too as he himself used to do
For it makes our hearts beat that much better.
Join in yourself and you’ll feel the same joy
For Tom Moon in his day was a minstrel boy.
VILLAGE LADY
“Peig my dear, no, I won’t have tea;
” To look at you there in your armchair,
Your hair so white in the window light,
Is good enough for me you see;
You say your beads you have said-
For the road ahead.
You’re on decade nine of your dream
Near Coolnaleen, where falls a stream
From Sliabh Chathail on high,
Flowing into the Feale that’s nearby.
Your Tanavalla forever
Looking down to the river;
In the cot that’s your own
By the fireside alone,
Widowed but merry-
“You’ll have whiskey or sherry, ”
“It’s not often you call-
I’ll tell no one at all”
“I have had the hedge cut,” she said,
“And the turf’s in the shed.”
“My son Mike will be home
In the fall of the year;
My daughter Noreen is living so near,
We’re over and back
Every day of the year; ”
“To Jo’s I’d go, up the hill long ago,
Past Johnny’s I’d climb-
One step at a time;
Up the Dale Road to me
Came my dear friend Mary.”
“They were all great, ” she said,
“It’s a pity they are dead.”
“Well I miss Dr. Jack-
When I think and look back:
How he’d call from the town
And come in and sit down.”
“Do you know Fr. Pat?
I’ll tell you now Matt:
He was here yesterday
And I said when I pray
My prayers in Irish I say;
I learned them when young,
Off by heart one by one.”
“In the old school in Clounmacon
There was skipping and jumping,
Ring a rosy and all kinds of fooling;
That time all the neighbours
At the end of their labours
Danced the polka then Patsy Haley,
And rose in the morning so early.”
She had an old local song
That was not very long,
It was all about poor old Michael J,
‘To O’Connor’s Grove
They used to rove,
All Tullamore did say.’
I could go on but Peig is gone,
With memories so sweet-
She might you know have the rest of that
When again, I hope, we’ll meet.
RED ORANGE JUICE
The cypress trees that line the road are tall and trim
Like sentinels of the forests and the fields
That clothe the Tuscan hills in green and gold.
Past the castle of Gargonza near Monte San Savino
And many hairpin bends that tease you as you travel,
You reach the gates of Siena-a city lost in time.
It’s Gothic Square is strangely shell shaped,
Houses standing seven stories high above you;
Shutters drawn for coolness in the
afternoon-
Faded, old and medieval, like a massive backdrop.
Weary now, we had climbed up earlier to the city
Sometimes out of breath—not just from the beauty
That lay ahead or round about and down below;
The sun suggesting a long cool drink above.
On the cobblestones the students squat; children play,
Chasing the pigeons that fly low among them;
Red orange juice on the shaded restaurant table.
BILBAO INTERLUDE
By the banks of the Nervión river
In the cool of the chestnut trees
I watched a wayward fallen leaf
Tumbling along in the breeze;
Touching my bare sandaled toes
It said ‘Time passes quickly by’
And I thought as it floated away
That it went with a hint of a sigh.
Trams green and black in Bilbao
That sound as low as our prayers;
Then a city centre bus sped by
And it made me sit up and stare
At a dressed up matron seated
With knitting needles and wool.
Or so I was fooled into thinking-
By an image so very well done.
COIS LAOI
Fear ard a chromann síos,
A leag a shúil ar ní thíos faoi:
Cúig cent ar lána an bhus,
A bhogann thart gan mhoill
Le teacht tráthnóna fhuadraigh
I gcathair chroíúil Chorcaí.
Micléinn ag flleadh abhaile
Chun ocras an lae a mharú
Thuas i seomraí ’tá acu ar cíos
Thall i dTobar Rí an Domhnaigh.
Cois abhann do shiúlamar:
Scathán de chrainn is binsí
Ag bun gháirdíní na n-uasal-
A gcuid staighrí sios le fána;
Lanúin óg ag blaiseadh póg,
Na lachain ag snámh le chéile.
San óstán tá siamsa is sólás,
Ceol faoi choinnleoir craobhach,
Seaimpéin is gloiní seanga:
Corc ag popáil, gáire is gean,
An oíche sa chathair ag titim.
ALIVE BY THE LEE
A tall man bends low,
While there is time,
To pick up a lost coin
Lying in the bus lane,
Before the evening rush.
Students heading home
Hungry for their dinner
High up in rented rooms
Across the Shaky Bridge
Up there in Sunday’s Well.
We walked by the Lee,
A looking glass for trees;
First kisses on a bench
As wild ducks pair away.
Sunset on the Western Rd.
Now an avenue of gold;
Blackbirds begin to sing
Around the Pink Clinic-
Place of human healing.
On a building site next door
A dumper driver on overtime,
Working till the last light of day,
Dumps another load of rubble
On a heap of stone and clay.
In the new hotel, the Kingsley,
Champagne in slender glasses;
Popping corks, loud laughter
And the night falling in the city;
The sweet music of a harp
Scintillating under chandeliers.
ST. MALO MAID
Spin and pirouette petite fille
Spin and pivot chère Charlotte,
Spin round and round my head.
Spin when your coat is shed,
Spin the draw drum of my dreams.
Spin you dancing poppy doll,
Spin you airborne spinning top-
Spin me as well St. Malo maid.
Spin and kick above your head-
Spin until you reach the galaxy,
Spin with stardust in your hands.
Spin female phantom of the night,
Spin slow away and say goodbye;
Spin soon again, I’ll see you then,
Spin back to me and to me smile.
TUNES
To the bodhrán’s beat your heart’s in harmony,
Sinews plainly dance in the player’s timing foot;
From head to toes our traditional music flows-
Like it does on piano strings it vibrates below.
The sitting down around, the resining of the bow;
The tuning up is done and a fiddler plays a tune-
The spirit of the session comes suddenly to life.
Now listen to the rhythm of the music of the night.
WALTZING AT THE FLEADH
In Clonmel the earnest Fleadh lovers
Walk around the streets of the town
In search of the best of the sessions
While the river Suir flows quietly on.
The couples wheel round in full circle
In sets danced by the young and old:
Sidestep, swing and cross over again,
Round the house, now dance in a ring.
We Tennessee waltzed by Heron’s
To the strains of a sweet violin
Held in the hands of that talented man-
Jim McKillop from Antrim himself.
On Monday the sidewalk was sunny
By the walls of the Arm’s Hotel
And the royalty of traditional music
Were there from the county of Meath.
For us the newly crowned champions
Began playing to begin their new day;
Troy Bannon was the céilí band leader
On the concert flute showing the way.
CARPENTER’S SON
High up over nearby Bantry Bay
Nails are hammered into wood
On the town library roof above us:
Maybe staccato accompaniment
To enliven poetry reading tones.
As every nail went home to stay
Like words and lines and stops
I couldn’t but imagine it was Him
From Nazareth-a carpenter’s son.
Son of the carpenter fix me too
And make my heart your home:
Tap tap the nails we never feel-
Your damaged goods in transit;
Tap, tap tap and hammer home,
Let hand and eye align each line,
Then finish off what was begun
The day you created me in time.
Make and shape me as you wish,
Perfect, direct and aim me straight.
Feed me with your spiritual food
To take me to your home away
And when it is your chosen day
Let me be in a sinless state;
Shape me sing me write me down-
Great poet and carpenter’s son.
EYES OF THE GLEN
One night we slept in Glendalough
Above the Abhainn Mhór river,
Its mountain waters wild and brown
From Parnell’s place in Avondale
To Moore’s Avoca winding ever.
The little fields climbed up the glen
Embroidered with sheep and lambs;
Deep down below a constant flow
That sounds around the river rocks.
Stepping stones to a trodden path
In the shade of the Wicklow woods
To walk to Saint Kevin’s holy lakes,
Each a glimmer in the eyes of God.
Calm lakes to quench a thirsty spirit,
Great shining sloes with silver souls;
On the shore a priest was speaking
Of hermits and of peace and healing.
A BOY ON HIS BIKE
A boy upon a new bike of his own
That day as he cycled from home;
It might have been his own chariot
And he could have been a Ben Hur.
He was cycling out i
nto the country
To go to see some ponies he loved;
He was happy to be out on his own,
Going down the road he knew well.
The ponies ran round the field freely,
Their manes flowing wild in the wind;
He who used to talk to them kindly
Too soon would be tragically killed.
His dead body was found by the sea,
Near the strand many long miles away,
Lying beneath the bushes and briars-
Last seen on a bike, back on that day.
The long days of searching were over,
The one that was lost was now found;
Their priest stood praying over him,
Quiet Gardaí, some crying, all round.
We all had been rocked to our roots
To hear a lad like him was laid low;
Many had come to help in the search-
He could have been one of their own.
So we’ll remember him sadly forever
As he set out on the high road of life,
We will always see him just as he was,
That time, but a young boy on his bike.
SEATS IN THE SUN
Trough St. Mary’s stained glass windows
The sun that’s setting near Mount Brandon
Beams across the aisle, the sacred way;
A warm ray highlighting the varnished seats
Around where we are kneeling at the side:
The two of us by the Stations of the Cross.
TOTUS TUUS-TOTALLY YOURS
A prince of peace has sat in Peter’s chair;
He came to make his home in Rome
From Poland-the holy Pope John Paul.
With his crosier in his hand he travelled
Near and far to preach the word of God;
He was the first to be a pilgrim Pope-
To wipe the world’s tear stained face;
He kissed the ground we walked upon
And told all young people “I love you!”
The man who gave a lasting gift to us-
Of himself and told us to be always true:
Semper fidelis; vowing he was totus tuus.