Summer 1979: Poem.

By Patrick Slevin

In 1979 we were holidaying at my aunt's in Ballinamore, Leitrim. On a day trip to my father's home town of Westport we visited a relative's house where there was a picture of the signing of the declaration of the Irish Republic. I was six years old and mistook it for the Last Supper. 

In this poem, it is the journey to a relative's house which is described, as well as the journey my father's emigrant generation took-- and also the relationship second generation Irish have with the home they will never live in but are brought up to believe they are forever connected with.

SUMMER 1979

Brought back for summer headlines before the

Copy warmed, the sixth edition ran

Stories, from another press. Black on white

And black on red, borrowed plates to serve 

The picnic, the temporary Beetle meandered

Under the Eagle’s weary eye. Beyond

McBride’s, beyond the Quay, beyond those

Leitrim two-week lanes. My father took the

Uncle’s chair, a Covey coming back to 

Where he’d kangarooed Brylcreem style, long

Before the Boomtown Rats. All day to look

At Old Head rain and then the favela 

Of the dead, grass swept under tarmac before 

A turkey ran me laps. Outside familiar 

Frames, slurred voices hid by welcome turf,

Strangers disguised as cousins, grandsons

Of the same revolt. We stood as victims 

Of a reclaiming Empire while they just 

Farmed the family acres. Mistaken 

Apostles gazed down on us, rising  

For the last supper. Explanations came  

Thick and fast, inside that room I could have 

Cried and cried. Laughter didn’t ease the pain

Amongst the vow of silence. Cajoled, hair   

Ruffled, amid proclamations of what  

Would you expect? We broke bread together,   

I suppose I was one of them. The  

Collection envelopes had gathered 

Once, in that house where the missed still shone. 

In the slumbered sunset, isolated 

Dreams had long since dimmed. They talked us round 

Whispered routes, of English wakes, of 

Lavery’s next years. Looking out for names 

On maps, exhausted fumes carried fresh goodbyes. 

Down a silent unlit road, looking for 

Directions home, but home was someone 

Else’s house, where we’d never live. Soldiers 

Without much song in our heart. Loaded full 

With heavy salutes. For fallen comrades 

And for us. For the land of heroes gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Manchester Irish Member Patrick Slevin lives in Stockport. He has been writing poems and stories for many years.

The images and text used in this post are © Patrick Slevin except for the image of the 1916 signatories which is in the Public Domain.

Patrick wrote 'Summer 1916' for MIW's commemorative event, '1916: The Risen Word', which was performed at the Irish World Heritage Centre, Manchester on March 10 2016. MIW received the generous support of the Embassy of Ireland for this event.