tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68890440467327458002024-02-18T19:53:23.178-08:00Manchester Irish WritersA blog to share the work of the MIW writing group. E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-71013524255028819832018-03-14T09:54:00.000-07:002018-03-14T09:54:22.441-07:00Leaving Ireland & Migratory Mourning: Two Poems<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By Martha Ashwell</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i>As part of Manchester Irish Festival 2017, MIW wrote original work for our event, 'Echoes of Ireland'. Voices from our past echo down to us through the years and the miles, inspiring us to create more words and pass that echo on. I’ve written two poems echoing the experiences of migration.</i><br />
<i>The first poem, 'Leaving Ireland', tells of the hopes and dreams of the young emigrant.</i><br />
<i>The second poem, 'Migratory Mourning', expresses the feelings of the mother left behind.</i><br />
<i>They were inspired by the words of Danny Boy.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>LEAVING IRELAND</b></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBksrfophwkbty6o-1OLJWnfm5uqCTGNgkx3cc6ZT4y7BMAzXhik9eKQi16YriW8y5SahiLH9YZXS4f-Wi2kFIoz-cKk67Jj6382iT5ztmWYGHOG__oRIm-PUM6HOWCZv8tAQROTq14pY/s1600/Killiney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="640" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBksrfophwkbty6o-1OLJWnfm5uqCTGNgkx3cc6ZT4y7BMAzXhik9eKQi16YriW8y5SahiLH9YZXS4f-Wi2kFIoz-cKk67Jj6382iT5ztmWYGHOG__oRIm-PUM6HOWCZv8tAQROTq14pY/s400/Killiney.jpg" title="The British Library via Flickr Public Domain" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/britishlibrary/11090480925/in/photolist-hU2BAn-hXmgzy-idQCed-ie7ASp-hLKhM4-hLA1Ht-i6Kq2G-i8Yovq-hTWSqG-hXiPXY-hSwkDg-icTjdU-hXjqcQ-i7c7R6-hLL5Fr-hM1bKU-hLKFf1-hLNabA-hLL8Mh-hRYh6t-hYjqUe-i7dfs6-i7dQTk-hNcosx-iayyLk-hLjcEE-hWfHvQ-i6LXgn-hMrE2M-i7y2vK-hWWj9v-hYBVkr-hSKz4s-hLiYTh-hS1yFg-hMJAQp-hLLjwH-hMFJZ5-hXzV1F-i7abFV-hLMr4Q-ibBhwe-hLNj2R-i7dZSy-hR7zUU-hRbHoT-hLRxZq-hTpbp2-i7dLYp-iaAZW7/">Image: The British Library/ flickr- Public Domain</a></td></tr>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
You’re off to America, I hear, Sean.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So, what are your thoughts as you leave?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I know your parents will miss you; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You’re the last of their boys to be gone.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Aye, … I’m leaving Ireland tomorrow</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And I’ll yearn for the family, I know.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But I ought to be making a future; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Become what I need to become.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Danny, he got there before me. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll be living with him for a start. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll find me a job and get moving. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mam, … always says I’m smart enough to stand on my own. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sure, I know she’ll be glad of the money </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Whatever I’m able to spare. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But, ‘twill take time to settle and prosper; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Take time to share my good fortune. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll be pleased to support the whole family, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Make up for the company they’re missing. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I know it won’t go so far, but</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
At least it’ll be something I’m giving.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll be homesick at first, God, I know it. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll miss all the comforts of home; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll miss young Rosie and Caitlín </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
They’re our Mary’s, … and she’s on her own.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll miss all the flowers of the summer</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And the soft haze that rains gently down.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll miss the sunrise and sunset.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh, … I’ll always be thinking of home.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But, I’m looking for work and good prospects </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And I’ll do all I can to impress.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It’s not like I’m leaving for nothing,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’m seeking my way to success.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll enjoy the new-found freedom </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Away from the church and the neighbours; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Where nobody knows all my business </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And nobody judges my choices. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That’ll be grand! </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll have to adapt to new customs,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Adjust to new thinking and feeling.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But I’ll try to stay true to my heritage</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And not lose sight of its meaning.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll never abandon my music </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And the poetry’ll stay deep in my soul. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
To leave them behind I’d be wretched. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
They’re part of this land that I love.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My journey’s a flight to the future, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Leaving childhood at the farm door.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll work as a fireman or stoker</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
From sapling … to great oak I’ll grow. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Though I’ll settle and have my own family </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll always be thinking of home. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll visit them then with my children. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Bring parcels for Caithlin and Rose. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sean, you sound very hopeful</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And I wish you every success </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But whatever you have you’ve to work for; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Nothing comes easy. … God bless! </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll try and get home when I can, Joe,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
When weddings and funerals dictate.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That would mean such a lot to my mother</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And it’s respect for the family that counts. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Keep an eye on them Joe, for me will you?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Let me know if you’ve any concerns. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I know that the leaving is painful and I worry for things left unspoken, </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
… By them and … by me.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>MIGRATORY MOURNING</b></div>
<i><br /></i>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXinBY-Si2onJybD8psjkf3oB2ZFg8vxU3Ibgu74fU3tGYWct9PSGmmCp5s9n-7hY-foa9moftiaGyaZnQ2WguL1OyMytzmQwNzhvThzQVmZTXa5n5aEfdv-ReJazwcBNPWw1FrLWjUXOT/s1600/Emigrants_Leave_Ireland_by_Henry_Doyle_1868.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXinBY-Si2onJybD8psjkf3oB2ZFg8vxU3Ibgu74fU3tGYWct9PSGmmCp5s9n-7hY-foa9moftiaGyaZnQ2WguL1OyMytzmQwNzhvThzQVmZTXa5n5aEfdv-ReJazwcBNPWw1FrLWjUXOT/s400/Emigrants_Leave_Ireland_by_Henry_Doyle_1868.jpg" title="Henry Edward Doyle [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Emigrants_Leave_Ireland_by_Henry_Doyle_1868.jpg">Image: Emigrants Leave Ireland by Henry Doyle Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons</a><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He’s gone, Siobhan, he’s gone;</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The last of my little ones gone.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My heart is breaking with the loss.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Migratory mourning,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Migratory mourning.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Whatever it is, I feel the pain.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Yearning again for another lost child;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Deep in the quagmire of Irish desertion,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Another severance I did not contrive.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tis mourning I am.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It tears at each family.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It abrades our country.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Our young ones have flown away.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Faraway into memories of time,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Leaving us mourning and moaning.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
There’s a hole in my heart,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A narrowing in my throat.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’m grieving for my children.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Grieving for the past;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The way it used to be.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Where’s the hope for me, Siobhan?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Michael barely knows me, I feel it again.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sitting and dozing and reading his paper.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He’s no idea of the searing pain.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A mourning twice over.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So much for the claim it will bring us together.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
His lacking increases my longing.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I need them to stir the ingredients of life</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And eat at our table once more.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Laughing and telling.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
There’s a letter from Danny this morning.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He’s home from America soon.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I feel the great joy at his coming</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But fear his departure;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The dread of his going again.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
They say that modern technology</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Eases the pain and attrition.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But, for me, the suffering is heightened and</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I float in a sea of illusion.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Drowning in a mirage of words.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The birthdays, the weddings and funerals</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Bring the children back home.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
When they visit, their visits are fleeting.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And again we’re left to bewail</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Their coming and their going.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sure, life’s always full of adjustments.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Identities shifting; evolving.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Experiences change you.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Everyone knows it;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That’s simply the way of the world.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
When it comes to my ageing and dying,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
How many will want to return?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Will they walk into church as strangers?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Or follow the path and resume</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Their prayers and their faith alongside me?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’m used to it all now, Siobhan.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’m well-practiced in loving and loss.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll find a new hobby to follow.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Immerse myself in the chaos.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The chaos and battle for life.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My useful life has not ended.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The crying will quickly abate.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The sun will flow through me tomorrow</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Dissolve and dissipate</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And raise up my spirits again.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ll not tell the children or Michael;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Not put my anxiety on them.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But confiding in someone is healing;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So, I’m grateful to you Siobhan</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
For holding my heart in your hand.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
~~~</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Text © Martha Ashwell</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVO8tiqmNQPLeEMLhWIw7Z9Uf0CosKsrmI2D1pWCetJYLPZhsF0rSDu4cVSod1Tb9L5yH6lE0uSTQOPYCbM4gGYt1Ov4HFUkmIXuZqXl4Btadc43PqfZOqSLpyQWR4n9zL1puXBML6Ij0k/s1600/Martha+Ashwell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVO8tiqmNQPLeEMLhWIw7Z9Uf0CosKsrmI2D1pWCetJYLPZhsF0rSDu4cVSod1Tb9L5yH6lE0uSTQOPYCbM4gGYt1Ov4HFUkmIXuZqXl4Btadc43PqfZOqSLpyQWR4n9zL1puXBML6Ij0k/s1600/Martha+Ashwell.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Martha Ashwell lives in Stockport and is a member of the Manchester Irish Writers. She loved writing as a child but only started writing seriously about four years ago. She has written poetry and prose which has been performed at The Irish World Heritage Centre in Manchester. Her main achievement to date is the publication of her personal memoir ‘Celia’s Secret: A Journey towards Reconciliation’. Find out more by visiting her website at <a href="http://marthaashwell.co.uk/home/">http://marthaashwell.co.uk/home/</a></div>
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-83942969358090543722017-12-31T09:32:00.000-08:002017-12-31T09:32:07.095-08:00Looking Back: A Reflection<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By Kathleen Handrick</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i>2017 will always be remembered in Manchester as the year of the horrific terrorist attack at the Arena, where twenty-two adults and children were killed, along with many scores more who were injured and traumatised. Manchester Irish Writers responded to this appalling, shocking tragedy in the only way we could: through our writing, which you can read <a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2017/05/manchester-arena-may-22-2017.html">here</a>. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>2017 also saw the 150th anniversary of another tragic chapter in the city's history: the execution at Salford Gaol of Irishmen William Philip Allen, Michael O'Brien, and Michael Larkin. They were hanged for the murder of police Sergeant Charles Brett, who was shot during an attempt to free Fenian leaders. None of the three men admitted to firing the shot but were nevertheless convicted. Two of the executions were horribly botched by the hangman. There was widespread indignation in Ireland and internationally. The three men became known as the Manchester Martyrs. MIW marked this important event in the histories of Ireland and Manchester with an evening of commemorative writing and music at the Irish World Heritage Centre. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>As a group of writers, we discuss our work and reflect on themes and linkages as part of our creative process. In the development of our writing in this tragic year, our member Kathleen Handrick wrote this reflection, called</i> 'Looking Back.' <i>Kathleen says:</i> 'I found this a difficult subject and have approached it from my own discussion with myself on the meaning of 'martyr' and its development through my changing life experiences. It is a personal view.'<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>LOOKING BACK</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1y0l1-nZ4K_FxMclFTlDNA7NOOCkBJ-y5-J7MuZs0bXDSTgwVQNyxRFZbuYhYTbe0THZhz8jaFbMBqvq1zMDUJ4ikL7aUR5a0DaDpZ-3dHitXPK3tYAwd9BBQbSfjMe4r_8xPEPUbmav/s1600/2872-saint-agnes-domenichino.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1102" data-original-width="803" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1y0l1-nZ4K_FxMclFTlDNA7NOOCkBJ-y5-J7MuZs0bXDSTgwVQNyxRFZbuYhYTbe0THZhz8jaFbMBqvq1zMDUJ4ikL7aUR5a0DaDpZ-3dHitXPK3tYAwd9BBQbSfjMe4r_8xPEPUbmav/s320/2872-saint-agnes-domenichino.jpg" title="Domenichino [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:2872-saint-agnes-domenichino.jpg">Saint Agnes</a><br />Public domain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />“Now isn't that a wonderful thing – to die for Our Lord like that.”<br />Standing in front of the class, nodding in satisfaction; hands clasped across her rounded form; her wide smile encompassed us all. She had done her duty.<br />Eight-year-old hearts swelled with innocent fervour thinking of the young martyr. Willing to give her life for her beliefs.<br />We stood proudly; we sang of our fathers' holy faith.<br />Determined that we would be loyal to the end.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
But - memories and allegiances grow dim. We outgrew those stories and traditions. There were changing times.<br />We enjoyed the upheaval. New found freedoms flourished. Protests and power emerged.<br />We recognised social and racial injustice in our widening world and responded. <br />We empathised; supported strangers in their suffering. Joined their cause.<br />We dreamed; we marched; we sang our anthem in faith.<br /><i>We shall overcome one day.</i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Discord though was never far away. There was unrest.<br />Dissatisfaction; conflict; the old order could not be forgotten. <br />When talking failed, action followed.<br />Strikes and riots to protect jobs; food for families; self-respect.<br />We rallied to their aid - a glimmer of hope in those dark days.<br />We stood firm. Together we marched. Together we sang.<br />With Welsh choirs and Yorkshire bands. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Were they martyrs?<br />Martin Luther King, activist and orator, assassinated;<br />Davy Jones and Joe Green, miners, killed on the picket line.<br />They died, as others in consequence of their beliefs.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The word is tainted of late. Our pride in freedom, rights, choices, is challenged.<br />It causes me to wonder.<br />I think of the present martyrs of Manchester: Alison and Lisa and the others.<br /> I think especially of Saffie, eight years old –killed in her pursuit of freedom. <br />The freedom to attend a pop concert and enjoy herself.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
We gather and we sing<br /><i>Don't Look Back in Anger</i>. <br />That's difficult.<br />It causes me to wonder…</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBngEQ-98bic2xs73tfrrucy8oEK1tx3raHXIBb-JIC7_F_mfXnJ7qxmcOOF0Odr7OSQJjs_fiLIp1kmDmWdzB4UP7B1QOqLKSbDKePIb1bvlgERcHSPOn4wDFoBcL-7RWpfdgV-hlxsoy/s1600/Sheep+and+Lamb+E.M.+Powell.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1163" data-original-width="1600" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBngEQ-98bic2xs73tfrrucy8oEK1tx3raHXIBb-JIC7_F_mfXnJ7qxmcOOF0Odr7OSQJjs_fiLIp1kmDmWdzB4UP7B1QOqLKSbDKePIb1bvlgERcHSPOn4wDFoBcL-7RWpfdgV-hlxsoy/s320/Sheep+and+Lamb+E.M.+Powell.JPG" title="© E.M. Powell" width="320" /></a></div>
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~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Looking Back © Kathleen Handrick</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPjzXOVynjJ1a_xC-nK722vb-8KG-MykmoX88_i9ra2v1DfQ7t54457DxOczv6RbXJuI67k4OwoemebGopoUoB9SzTLtMLLw3s9dEsoDdEddqrXC8BVx7nHXcI5W38kf-TUd_3HW3FKwQ/s1600/Kathleen+Handrick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1071" data-original-width="968" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPjzXOVynjJ1a_xC-nK722vb-8KG-MykmoX88_i9ra2v1DfQ7t54457DxOczv6RbXJuI67k4OwoemebGopoUoB9SzTLtMLLw3s9dEsoDdEddqrXC8BVx7nHXcI5W38kf-TUd_3HW3FKwQ/s200/Kathleen+Handrick.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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Kathleen Handrick is retired and lives in Oldham with her husband and family. She joined MIW in 2013 as a novice writer and enjoys participating in the writers’ events. Her Irish roots are in County Mayo.</div>
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-47015010177051984732017-11-05T00:30:00.000-07:002017-11-05T00:30:09.211-07:00Well, Minnie: An Echo of Ireland <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By Rose Morris</b><br />
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<i>As part of Manchester Irish Festival 2017, MIW wrote and performed original and historical work for our event, ‘Echoes of Ireland.’ Voices from our past echo down to us through the years and the miles, inspiring us to pass that echo on. </i><br />
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<i>My Echo comes from a letter written by my grand uncle, Francis, to his sister Minnie in San Francisco in 1915. </i><br />
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<i>A copy of the letter was brought back to Tyrone by his niece in the 1980’s when she visited Ireland for the first time in search of her roots. </i><i>His niece was able to tell us that her mother would never have read this letter as she died giving birth to herself on the 29th September 1915.</i><br />
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<i>The letter was dated 19th September and taking into account the time it would have taken for surface mail in those days it would not have arrived until after her death.</i><br />
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<b>WELL, MINNIE</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggiUfIR4fev9IlcTnLv2AapjkqRlXMgIYGqjpd5MW48nOsIbX8gtVuCmgNCdsnCOgUpp3aYVuhFL37vANHjgvwekE2kcRqYXGGi8hh7PIG1GQWDbBmDN-afMmVedYP87aDmOPKi02pKlS_/s1600/Well+Minnie+Letter+1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="623" data-original-width="397" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggiUfIR4fev9IlcTnLv2AapjkqRlXMgIYGqjpd5MW48nOsIbX8gtVuCmgNCdsnCOgUpp3aYVuhFL37vANHjgvwekE2kcRqYXGGi8hh7PIG1GQWDbBmDN-afMmVedYP87aDmOPKi02pKlS_/s400/Well+Minnie+Letter+1.png" title="© Rose Morris" width="253" /></a></div>
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<br />Irish Craveny, Ballygawley, Tyrone<br />19th September 1915. </blockquote>
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Well Minnie, dear sister.<br />Just a few lines<br />hoping to find you in good health.<br />These lines leave us fine.</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl0bz60iU2Q9lAiAtl8v0PXZ_e8EtPdMVM7W5gR8fiuP9djfs2XEEDVZ2-n504Py1XtIvalI-VJf-OoqJOQlrUoYN-ADbeJuLjrnW53WIHn7y4FjKfBsy4jbWJzOUX0XmL9QKFAvxVgkI8/s1600/Well+Minnie+Letter+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="396" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl0bz60iU2Q9lAiAtl8v0PXZ_e8EtPdMVM7W5gR8fiuP9djfs2XEEDVZ2-n504Py1XtIvalI-VJf-OoqJOQlrUoYN-ADbeJuLjrnW53WIHn7y4FjKfBsy4jbWJzOUX0XmL9QKFAvxVgkI8/s400/Well+Minnie+Letter+2.png" title="© Rose Morris" width="243" /></a></div>
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Well Minnie, I have watched this long time<br />for a letter from you.<br />We have got Johnny married,<br />so that’s a change here.<br />She’s Roseanne O’Neill.<br />a neighbour of Susan’s.<br />Only twenty years of age.<br />That’s young enough to marry.<br />We are quite happy with her.<br />It was with all of her wishes.<br />She is good to mother and father.<br />That’s a great comfort to us.<br />It makes it alright<br />and that’s best of all.</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDJFQv_8G4w0BqXcR67Sbz9G95efZocdP8KzjjgfU9cbFFl7LltVpuciMD9-3boealyitPlvzh63BR7MrA3tSo7D-Y3CsNXbof6sBfVtIsiuMqjsepv3d-m3tSHtDUH4w6nohvvOIMYCA/s1600/Well+Minnie+Letter+3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDJFQv_8G4w0BqXcR67Sbz9G95efZocdP8KzjjgfU9cbFFl7LltVpuciMD9-3boealyitPlvzh63BR7MrA3tSo7D-Y3CsNXbof6sBfVtIsiuMqjsepv3d-m3tSHtDUH4w6nohvvOIMYCA/s400/Well+Minnie+Letter+3.png" title="© Rose Morris" width="266" /></a></div>
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Well Minnie, I am the only one left now<br />and it’s hard to say how I am to pull through,<br />for marryings make great changes you know<br />and my home will soon be over there too.</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBIDKWi-Y_ukpqgd65xRTJwfGJ9n-MuB_w0dxD1DUyMKw9vk5Z-NqAPlodnDbe_KfzIT15uqEEFO9Nt1orjVlGaMbO70N1xLC0KMIHOkn72tY_8HFHT8y_Kc063XozUJlR3uAelk2oYh57/s1600/Well+Minnie+Letter+4.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="441" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBIDKWi-Y_ukpqgd65xRTJwfGJ9n-MuB_w0dxD1DUyMKw9vk5Z-NqAPlodnDbe_KfzIT15uqEEFO9Nt1orjVlGaMbO70N1xLC0KMIHOkn72tY_8HFHT8y_Kc063XozUJlR3uAelk2oYh57/s400/Well+Minnie+Letter+4.png" title="© Rose Morris" width="286" /></a></div>
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That’s all at present.<br />Hoping to hear from you soon.<br />They all join in sending best wishes<br />To your husband and family.</blockquote>
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Your loving brother,<br />Francis McCann</blockquote>
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<i>Uncle Francis never did get to America, he moved out of his home to leave Johnny and his new wife their own space, lived alone as a bachelor until my mother looked after him in his old age at our house where he died in 1956.</i></div>
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<i>This letter echoes a hidden story of his hopes and dreams of joining the rest of his emigrated family members. He never realised this dream and we never knew of it until it echoed again in the 1980’s long after he had gone.</i></div>
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<i>~~~~~~~~~~~</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Words & Images © Rose Morris</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwRFTHIijhQdxvkVUlaUr6EhJm8NJNSLzg5SZFxtFKvrAeehAisbs9RUqkNYL2AQcFVqyO0JMM1f41tIjOVxCchcUAMMR_BinfF4wljhhoryw6y_mAHVmBaHOTWxhIGzh7FVCMJTZnJQNM/s1600/Rose+Morris.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="577" data-original-width="468" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwRFTHIijhQdxvkVUlaUr6EhJm8NJNSLzg5SZFxtFKvrAeehAisbs9RUqkNYL2AQcFVqyO0JMM1f41tIjOVxCchcUAMMR_BinfF4wljhhoryw6y_mAHVmBaHOTWxhIGzh7FVCMJTZnJQNM/s200/Rose+Morris.jpeg" width="161" /></a></div>
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Rose Morris was born near Dungannon, in Co. Tyrone. Having retired from a career in Art and Design Education in Greater Manchester she now spends more time pursuing her creative interests and involvement in community projects in Manchester and Tyrone.</div>
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She co-founded the Manchester Irish Writers group with Alrene Hughes in 1994 and reckons that her continued involvement and sharing within that group has greatly enhanced the development of her own writing. </div>
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Her monologues have been performed at the Library Theatre and the Royal Exchange and her short stories and poetry have been published in the Manchester Irish Writers’ collections; <i>The End of the Rodden</i>, <i>The Retting Dam</i>, <i>Stone of the Heart</i>, <i>Drawing Breath</i> and <i>Changing Skies</i>.</div>
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Rose wrote “Well Minnie” for MIW's Manchester Irish Festival event, “Echoes of Ireland”, which was performed at the Irish World Heritage Centre, Manchester in March 2017.</div>
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-70053992423623588352017-10-29T13:28:00.000-07:002017-10-29T13:28:04.997-07:00My Musical Memories <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By Marion Riley</b><br />
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<b>MY MUSICAL MEMORIES</b></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkT64W2hKPSQcdtonMXP8X-kK8x7j_SND1a9AZ17hU7kbIy2e7RdxrvENrgQsL6HM8_zyJ_-mfNWVsATVIDN2E8oudXLcGJwVU6ZnpqgLj0nqYgYMPJBdmBbDsD5e83H7JCw4I4LvWbjkS/s1600/1+My+Music+Corner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkT64W2hKPSQcdtonMXP8X-kK8x7j_SND1a9AZ17hU7kbIy2e7RdxrvENrgQsL6HM8_zyJ_-mfNWVsATVIDN2E8oudXLcGJwVU6ZnpqgLj0nqYgYMPJBdmBbDsD5e83H7JCw4I4LvWbjkS/s320/1+My+Music+Corner.jpg" title="© Marion Riley" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My music corner<br />© Marion Riley</td></tr>
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At the age of fourteen when I left Limerick, I could play the piano by memory so once the notes were learned, I didn't need a music sheet. But nowadays I have to have the music sheet in front of me. It's like as if that particular part of my brain froze when I left. When I see an old piano in a hidden corner of a hotel or pub, I instantly recall the notes to The Irish Washerwoman, Garryowen and others. But the ones learnt since I left Ireland fail me without a music sheet. So wherever I travel, I bring music sheets with me, just in case I find a piano waiting and no one around to make me nervous.<br />
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Some of my piano sheet music is parched yellow, stuck together with Sellotape and at least a hundred years old. Some are not even Irish songs but they remind me of emigration. For example, The Maori song which belonged to my grandmother.<br />
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<i>Now is the Hour when we must say goodbye, soon you'll be sailing far across the sea. </i></blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitLXZESOKecbr29oytxjcdzYSv3ijc5jWz0Zga-8nSaDL4NMgCweGKHsoAEU5vSJJuyXiXHsanw1kglF6OEfBS75oLM8xhwp3siTWu4KjUWKO4xwcCVbG6y6S1bqxxScdl3ZbdAVMN3EMV/s1600/2+North_Atlantic_010917_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitLXZESOKecbr29oytxjcdzYSv3ijc5jWz0Zga-8nSaDL4NMgCweGKHsoAEU5vSJJuyXiXHsanw1kglF6OEfBS75oLM8xhwp3siTWu4KjUWKO4xwcCVbG6y6S1bqxxScdl3ZbdAVMN3EMV/s320/2+North_Atlantic_010917_2.jpg" title="By NAC (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:North_Atlantic_010917_2.jpg">Image: By NAC (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons</a></td></tr>
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My mother taught me and my late brothers. They went on to be musicians playing with both Irish and English bands In England and Germany. But my sister refused to learn, she didn't like the practising of countless scales and wanted to play like Mozart, without any effort.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2kV2UzxN1BsXirW0OD7X9kcj1e5YLoAnvIOK447a_2WKHWuWun1DerFWxs1xlItG8lP8H0YKCNLxRd1Knz8yJdE_Dg3m2SyWrxmDcQApxB9ec8Ew14o_0YlX1yDXBMl9xJRsswQNf5mv7/s1600/3+Percy_French_Mayo_Mermaids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="774" data-original-width="1200" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2kV2UzxN1BsXirW0OD7X9kcj1e5YLoAnvIOK447a_2WKHWuWun1DerFWxs1xlItG8lP8H0YKCNLxRd1Knz8yJdE_Dg3m2SyWrxmDcQApxB9ec8Ew14o_0YlX1yDXBMl9xJRsswQNf5mv7/s320/3+Percy_French_Mayo_Mermaids.jpg" title="By Robin Hutton from Perth, Western Australia (Flickr) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mayo Mermaids by Percy French<br /><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Percy_French_Mayo_Mermaids.jpg">Image: Robin Hutton [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons</a></td></tr>
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Jigs and reels I play, the songs of Percy French and Thomas Moore, waltzes and the national anthem from an original copy of The Soldiers Song. My favourite songs are <i>The Rose of Tralee</i> and <i>The Last Rose of Summer</i>. We played these at my mother's funeral for she was born in Tralee, survived her six siblings into lonely old age and passed away as the last roses were fading.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYPMUbYybi3x70QCWuKAjFR1WPCJdiz7l85x1oMxpG9827yf3ZWYwKhjDj7lWyspMFuQPWa4qHtZ-CgcmnwpvQxo-33q2s6zn8mP_4ltkL25JmAA7ZcDvUxNonu2h38_MpH33Pbs346oYQ/s1600/4+leaf-rose-flower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYPMUbYybi3x70QCWuKAjFR1WPCJdiz7l85x1oMxpG9827yf3ZWYwKhjDj7lWyspMFuQPWa4qHtZ-CgcmnwpvQxo-33q2s6zn8mP_4ltkL25JmAA7ZcDvUxNonu2h38_MpH33Pbs346oYQ/s320/4+leaf-rose-flower.jpg" title="Photo via Visualhunt.com" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://visualhunt.com/photo/197524/">Photo via Visualhunt.com, Public Domain</a></td></tr>
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And how music reminds me of childhood days, especially<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Oft, in the stilly night,</i></div>
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<i>Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,</i></div>
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<i>Fond Memory brings the light</i></div>
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<i>Of other days around me;</i></div>
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<i>The smiles, the tears,</i></div>
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<i>Of girlhood's years,</i></div>
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<i>The words of love then spoken;</i></div>
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<i>The eyes that shone,</i></div>
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<i>Now dimm'd and gone</i></div>
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When I play the ivory keys, I’m back in green fields beneath purple mountains. I'm in old fashioned gypsy caravans. I'm swimming in the Atlantic waves, climbing old haystacks, picnicking by lakes and the River Shannon. I smell the turf burning in the fires and see the candles lit all over Ireland on Christmas Eve guiding the Holy Family. I share the tears of those left behind as they wave goodbye to their sons and daughters.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz4ODA5jCWXiCwO85RQhC47qsCFsXoiluPm4i1ldZCRxpRy03k5xb02jcV-XB4tp1A8bYRumEUiGObVUlzN1nVx5Wta5B_dIjg6xnAqhYe9cJ8KXl2XLVUWhcxImj9XHu5U3ztflPkx_-b/s1600/5+RooskyShannon_Feb_2003_171.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz4ODA5jCWXiCwO85RQhC47qsCFsXoiluPm4i1ldZCRxpRy03k5xb02jcV-XB4tp1A8bYRumEUiGObVUlzN1nVx5Wta5B_dIjg6xnAqhYe9cJ8KXl2XLVUWhcxImj9XHu5U3ztflPkx_-b/s320/5+RooskyShannon_Feb_2003_171.jpg" title="By Sarah777 at English Wikipedia [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">River Shannon<br /><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:RooskyShannon_Feb_2003_171.jpg">Image: Publicdomain, via Wikimedia Commons</a></td></tr>
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<br />
When I play Kevin Barry I'm reminded of my parents' parties. Too young to join in, I used to sit at the top of the stairs and listen to a northern Irish lady who for peace of mind, left her Derry home to live in Limerick. She sang with such emotion about 18-year-old Kevin and also Terence Sweeney. Lord mayor of Cork. <br />
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Hearing the words of <i>Just a Lad of Eighteen Summers</i> and <i>Shall My Soul Pass Through old Ireland</i> fired my young imagination to such an extent that I dreamt of being like Joan of Arc, and riding forth to free my country. How easily influenced but how idealist are the young! <br />
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One of my favourite music pieces is <i>Éamonn an Chnoic:</i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
‘Cé hé sin amuigh a bhfuil faobhar ar a ghuth</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Ag réabadh mo dhorais dúnta?’</div>
</blockquote>
When I play this I'm back in Laurel Hill's school choir while the nun tries to get us girls to sing in unison and in tune. We're not taking it seriously especially those of us in the back row like myself. We are giggling, and the poor nun is jumping up and down in frustration. Now, how I really appreciate the words and the haunting music, the energy and commitment of that poor sister!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqmcWO19QrUtyrLamK0Q9QDkf2hvup6h-CdtwxctNPAnGXeNggQFz0MvEeWQHrboxzvMALjK3Y3mxqOrHjwVup4qDKVwI-j4enl8kWlNffXbXui1JYxpTfsEWkuSbxkFL0oVrYVySpq5tq/s1600/6+A_Handbook_of_Irish_Dances.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqmcWO19QrUtyrLamK0Q9QDkf2hvup6h-CdtwxctNPAnGXeNggQFz0MvEeWQHrboxzvMALjK3Y3mxqOrHjwVup4qDKVwI-j4enl8kWlNffXbXui1JYxpTfsEWkuSbxkFL0oVrYVySpq5tq/s1600/6+A_Handbook_of_Irish_Dances.jpg" title="By J. G. O'Keeffe (1865-1937) (selbst eingescannt User:Cuchullain) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:A_Handbook_of_Irish_Dances.jpg">Image: Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />How I enjoy playing jigs, reels and hornpipes to get the hands tapping and the feet moving, especially in the company of an Irish audience which has a particular gift to change from melancholy to sheer joy, even madness in a matter of seconds. Indeed, the Irish genes have been passed down to my half French grandson living down south. Apart from attending Irish dancing classes, when 8 years of age, he used to spontaneously dance everywhere, in supermarkets, at bus and railway stations, in car parks, even on the shingle shores of Brighton. <br />
<br />
I'm so grateful to my dear mother. She was one exam away from a Trinity College qualification to teach the piano, when her father packed her off to the wilds of Kerry to improve her Irish language skills. He was more into education than music and how she often spoke of her regret in missing out on this exam. But her loss was my gain, she might not have had time to teach me had she been engaged with many other would be pianists.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqW2y0zzTRAIOhSa6i3scLGV47tmP3O3gQMDKLbAIZ76qwcbqL6JLPHpGTuI1_EAsoJfiKU3g24Qk7UlE3s6u3RXPZl5zKNzvckPguysaxZZm4rgLGUtqSiNASEgbvZYdz57sQDvSeyOAz/s1600/7+wooden-piano-piano-crack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqW2y0zzTRAIOhSa6i3scLGV47tmP3O3gQMDKLbAIZ76qwcbqL6JLPHpGTuI1_EAsoJfiKU3g24Qk7UlE3s6u3RXPZl5zKNzvckPguysaxZZm4rgLGUtqSiNASEgbvZYdz57sQDvSeyOAz/s320/7+wooden-piano-piano-crack.jpg" title="Photo via Visualhunt.com" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://visualhunt.com/photo/197752/">Photo via Visualhunt.com</a></td></tr>
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<br />
She always said that a person would never be lonely if they could play a musical instrument. And how right she was. Now that the children have left my nest and the grandchildren are in their teens and so involved with their phones and their computers and game boxes, I'm not needed as much as before. But I only have to play my music and I'm back in its melody of memories of the land across the Irish sea where I first learnt the five-finger exercise, almost three score years and ten ago. <br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Text © Marion Riley</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIcbQnLaGH5hLV3Q7KAuy_xUbR93wmKb8fWZbhyphenhyphen8b2bFD_gd3cniu-BL9NA9nqohExemKOHV3UyKwx9JT5Jm567P_-xPuznpb03wZS-1GbbL8iicD0_PfIeMTpm7zdN7B9Rcfd-Q3ImODs/s1600/Marion+Riley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="301" data-original-width="292" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIcbQnLaGH5hLV3Q7KAuy_xUbR93wmKb8fWZbhyphenhyphen8b2bFD_gd3cniu-BL9NA9nqohExemKOHV3UyKwx9JT5Jm567P_-xPuznpb03wZS-1GbbL8iicD0_PfIeMTpm7zdN7B9Rcfd-Q3ImODs/s200/Marion+Riley.jpg" width="193" /></a></div>
Marion Riley was born in Limerick city and emigrated as a teenager to Manchester. She has worked in Sardinia, Spain, Switzerland and France. A winner and runner up of Irelands Own writing competitions, the magazine has published many of her stories and articles. Her monologues have been performed at the Library Theatre and the Royal Exchange and her poems and memoirs have been published in various anthologies such as Write North West. Two of her short story Films 'Curls of the Past' and 'Letting Go' are on the BBC website Telling Lives. She has also edited and published her late mother's memoirs' From Kerry Child to Limerick Lady.' Marion now lives in Sussex, close to daughter where there is space and peace for quiet reflection on life's transience</div>
E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-34384458210351091222017-05-28T04:39:00.000-07:002017-05-28T04:39:59.012-07:00Manchester Arena, May 22 2017<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>The senseless slaughter of 22 innocent people, along with the maiming and traumatising of so many others at Manchester Arena last Monday night is beyond comprehension. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir7S_m7Zf0kNhjpovmi4rNDreLBxkyKDpnRlSF0SGu0m9_eHEOl7DanCSLuRHs2HtcGAwU5CHJzQBgom4bwxL9T7m0jYTCsMdZrdoOPbTmZxrgqbWc5AG2jrhX9cMpRsBHW5TlN5AeS9wf/s1600/1+Header+Flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="949" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir7S_m7Zf0kNhjpovmi4rNDreLBxkyKDpnRlSF0SGu0m9_eHEOl7DanCSLuRHs2HtcGAwU5CHJzQBgom4bwxL9T7m0jYTCsMdZrdoOPbTmZxrgqbWc5AG2jrhX9cMpRsBHW5TlN5AeS9wf/s400/1+Header+Flowers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>Manchester Irish Writers offer their deepest sympathies to all those involved.</i> <i>As writers, many of us have responded in the only way we know how.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<i><br /></i>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>FIRST NIGHT AT THE ARENA</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>By E.M. Powell</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
As so many Manchester parents know only too well, allowing your teenage daughter to go to the Arena to a gig with a group of friends for the first time is a rite of passage.<br />
<br />
They take no notice of your 'Be Carefuls': Make sure you stay together. Don't go to the loo on your own. If you get separated, go to one of the staff. When you come out, watch the road, there's cars everywhere. Make sure your phone's charged up. Dad and I will be in the car at that corner after. Yes, that one. No, THAT one. They haven't listened to a word.<br />
<br />
You wave them off, heart in your mouth. At pick up time, (we'll be there from 10:15 in case it finishes early, no, I know it says 10:30 on the ticket, but just in case) you're at that corner. It's raining. Of course it is. So many coming out, so many who could be yours but aren't. You're just watching for yours. Texts. No, THAT corner. Then the text:<i> 'It's ok, I can see you.'</i><br />
<br />
Then she's in, they're all in, soaked of course because they didn't have coats. A back seat full of giggles, shrieks and the car steams up. They're dropped off one by one. The car's quiet. It's just yours left.<i> 'Did you have a good time?' </i>The phone's out again. <i>'Yeah.'</i> Then we're home. Home.<br />
<br />
That's how it's supposed to happen. This morning, I can only thank every God there is, that that was how it happened for us. That mine came home.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsqLcGDXI1xufHyoT76Zd4xMSBTvNzV1WzqT1VCUcSjmbhYK2ZSK45OxuxWM-tNqGFvUQU52v4UIkABXWv3SEuaYAuBG3kfitnQXrAK10as1qI4damNDkdgeVkjn0IUrcjjWOS8mzqE246/s1600/3+Martha+Ashwell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="717" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsqLcGDXI1xufHyoT76Zd4xMSBTvNzV1WzqT1VCUcSjmbhYK2ZSK45OxuxWM-tNqGFvUQU52v4UIkABXWv3SEuaYAuBG3kfitnQXrAK10as1qI4damNDkdgeVkjn0IUrcjjWOS8mzqE246/s320/3+Martha+Ashwell.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>MANCHESTER - 23 MAY 2017 </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>By Martha Ashwell</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The sun shines too brightly today;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Clouds should be shrouding our city in gloom.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The rubble and debris of so many lives</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Remains to be swept up in the wreckage of dreams.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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Beautiful children and smiling young faces</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Killed in an instant; heavenly themes lost in the music.</div>
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Parents bereft of their hopes and their dreams,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Their children’s lives destroyed without warning.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Hatred and anger inspire the violence </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Erupting indiscriminately.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Why has it happened?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What is the answer? </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Kindness and giving rise to the surface;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The warmth of Mancunians caresses the sadness.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The world looks on and determines;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The only way to conquer evil is through love.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>AFTERMATH</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>By Kevin McMahon</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Manchester 23.5.2017</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In the green glow </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
of Whitworth Park</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
students bristle with </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
mid-exam frenzy </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
of relaxation.</div>
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A yellow frisbee</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
scutters between trees.</div>
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A woman sits </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
on tartan square </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
in leaf-shade</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and watches her child</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
crawl across the rug</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
recoiling at each edge</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
when she feels</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the cool prick of grass.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Although she smiles</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
this mother cannot quell</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the gall of dread,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
One day this child</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
will feel her way</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
beyond her narrow</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
boundaries;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
will want to join</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
her friends in happy</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
concert crowds, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
with appeasing -</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
meaningless -</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
cautious promises; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
will step beyond</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the limits of her care.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdW8IfPAiAzNeLdkNQYFZM63Nik1HTdW0vhSB4A0_qinppkaMe7a6-DKai1OCKZL2YdVYl2aGYIu6Z3tEMJQXp5dbBhprJKzw3exboS8lNkvTL-x6M5VEA8gzINUCJ7Xw0OjmXUCTmrRkD/s1600/5+Patrick+Slevin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="960" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdW8IfPAiAzNeLdkNQYFZM63Nik1HTdW0vhSB4A0_qinppkaMe7a6-DKai1OCKZL2YdVYl2aGYIu6Z3tEMJQXp5dbBhprJKzw3exboS8lNkvTL-x6M5VEA8gzINUCJ7Xw0OjmXUCTmrRkD/s320/5+Patrick+Slevin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>THE MORNING AFTER</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>By Patrick Slevin</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You noticed. I was late. Hung on for too </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Many goodbyes. Held the kids a little</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tighter. Because that world was still out there. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Cars sat, subdued. Red eyes watching red lights.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Busy searching for yesterday, before </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The landscape changed.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I rang you before I got there. Couldn’t </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Think of any words. If I said I loved you too</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Many times, it’s because of those who can’t.</div>
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-3259654405710390172017-05-21T10:07:00.000-07:002017-10-24T05:21:34.675-07:00Martin Duffy: One of the Forgotten Generation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By Kathleen Handrick</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgogmR192uWMmvFZ-D1Y8tC2KL8Wqba2iDPE6Q9NCRfIPG3-1cjPxqC5dWW8Pen1D1qk9sH1eYfO1Vc9yEMLj9DCv9FMtfVnPTmXZ8J3yufT55b1YCJppsGPj40LYD5xWhnrZkUJ3MtBYZn/s1600/1+A+Mayo+Peace+Park+Website.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgogmR192uWMmvFZ-D1Y8tC2KL8Wqba2iDPE6Q9NCRfIPG3-1cjPxqC5dWW8Pen1D1qk9sH1eYfO1Vc9yEMLj9DCv9FMtfVnPTmXZ8J3yufT55b1YCJppsGPj40LYD5xWhnrZkUJ3MtBYZn/s400/1+A+Mayo+Peace+Park+Website.jpg" title="Image courtesy of the Irish War Memorials website" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mayo Peace Park, Castlebar<br />
<a href="http://www.irishwarmemorials.ie/Place-Detail?siteId=333">Image courtesy of the Irish War Memorials website</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>'The Mayo Peace Park has consigned the ignorance and bitterness of the past into history. It does not seek to glorify or justify any war; its purpose is to commemorate the memory of the people of County Mayo who died in them. It was developed to remember a forgotten generation of brave heroic local people... whose service and sacrifice had been ignored and forgotten, indeed airbrushed out of modern Irish history until recent times.' </i>Irish War Memorials- Mayo Peace Park. </blockquote>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkI_sHzEl0MRlxdGKEpl6Vvq2Su3fu4krbBNcs_VXsXvjlNY7MI9eIU1x7tSonCjIyC9vlcWiSES33HPtPHA04_KB391SDlOaOni_pwYB6kqXKkzP7rE-HFoUpm1ja0UsEtMFka7sFLqoH/s1600/1+ireland+june+2010+133.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkI_sHzEl0MRlxdGKEpl6Vvq2Su3fu4krbBNcs_VXsXvjlNY7MI9eIU1x7tSonCjIyC9vlcWiSES33HPtPHA04_KB391SDlOaOni_pwYB6kqXKkzP7rE-HFoUpm1ja0UsEtMFka7sFLqoH/s320/1+ireland+june+2010+133.JPG" title="Image © Kathleen Handrick" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image © Kathleen Handrick</td></tr>
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In 2010, I was very pleased to see the name of Martin Duffy, Donkey Man ( a Merchant Navy Stoker), inscribed on the beautiful memorial in the <a href="http://www.irishwarmemorials.ie/Place-Detail?siteId=333">Mayo Peace Park, Castleba</a>r. Martin was my father’s uncle but unknown to later generations of the family.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUw3iDMp6gbFgcYoepwdTShdJWWppi4NvWpxOsC0TSrDteK5qGfuaY54cLPTti7CCh-oeB2BZySJ6s3r3XrkBJirG_y89RBDyo7ubhk6_tExs-YQMQEbeBLJkCRMtsgri7LYPWM1g4UOjI/s1600/2+ireland+june+2010+136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="65" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUw3iDMp6gbFgcYoepwdTShdJWWppi4NvWpxOsC0TSrDteK5qGfuaY54cLPTti7CCh-oeB2BZySJ6s3r3XrkBJirG_y89RBDyo7ubhk6_tExs-YQMQEbeBLJkCRMtsgri7LYPWM1g4UOjI/s400/2+ireland+june+2010+136.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image © Kathleen Handrick</td></tr>
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My research had begun a few years earlier. I was interested in family history but knew very little of my Mayo roots even though I had close relatives still in Mayo. I think it seemed an odd concept to them that I would want to explore this. Perhaps because it was just part of their being, they were living within the history they felt there was no need to delve into the past.<br />
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As a child, my English mother had told me of names and places in her family but my father was very reticent. I used to meet people who came from Lacken, I knew the names of my family still living there but that was it. There was nothing at all of his life experiences in Mayo.<br />
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I began by ordering the certificate of my grandparents’ marriage, Thomas Malley and Mary Duffy, and then began to trawl through microfilms at a library at the local Church of Jesus Christ of Latter - day Saints. It was a laborious and not very productive task as the parish records were scant.<br />
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In 2003, I answered a posted request on an internet forum with regard to the Duffy family from Carrowtrasna, my grandmother’s town land. It was from Francis, in USA whose family had emigrated to Pennsylvania in the mid 1880s and although we felt that we might be related, there was no proof. Soon though, came a message from Francis, <i>“I think I have found you a cousin!”</i> and Ray, also in USA, proved to be my second cousin. Our grandmothers were sisters.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_mO-twqapCelYi3CAuLoGCZrCIZcVN66rl3Re9vb9N6eWWvnTqHwVEdJUtBk0U7H6BTFPuh_FMAd1c1cSdkm6FElvCJYxdL5lUW6256PBwwX9VDUi4emU1t-oYKdPntqiDBYS0cyE3diT/s1600/Mayo+BL+Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_mO-twqapCelYi3CAuLoGCZrCIZcVN66rl3Re9vb9N6eWWvnTqHwVEdJUtBk0U7H6BTFPuh_FMAd1c1cSdkm6FElvCJYxdL5lUW6256PBwwX9VDUi4emU1t-oYKdPntqiDBYS0cyE3diT/s400/Mayo+BL+Flickr.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Map of Co. Mayo, 1841 <br />
British Library - no known copyright restrictions</td></tr>
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Ray regularly visits Mayo and is a great researcher and we shared our knowledge. We found the Duffys in 1901 and 1911 censuses and thought that we had all our grandmothers’ siblings from those records.<br />
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In 2007, Ray asked if I had ever seen a photograph of a sailor in any of our Irish relatives’ homes. He could recall seeing one but was not sure where and he had found a commemoration of a Merchant Navy man, Martin Duffy, son of Michael and Mary of Carrowtrasna, Mayo on the <a href="http://www.cwgc.org/">Commonwealth Graves Commission (CWGC) website</a> showing a death in 1916. Ray and I tried to find this death with no results.<br />
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I posted on a Family History site about our difficulties in tracing Martin and a kind person investigated and discovered that the date was wrong and arranged its correction. Martin Duffy, a Donkey man, Mercantile Marine, died in March 1918 when his ship SS Boorara was torpedoed in the English Channel. Four other men were killed that day together with Martin.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image used with kind permission of the Australian War Memorial </td></tr>
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In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, local employment, in the townlands around Lacken, was to be found in farming and fishing but several men from the area enlisted in the Royal Navy, perhaps the natural choice for men who had lived by and understood the sea. Recent records show local men who took part in WW1, including the Battle of Jutland. One of the local survivors returned home but sadly died in a fishing tragedy a few years later in Lacken Bay. Several lives were lost that night.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image © Kathleen Handrick</td></tr>
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As more resources became available through internet sites, I was able to continue my research. Martin, aged 19 years, enlisted on the 5th August 1899, for 12 years as a Stoker in the Royal Navy. He served on several ships and his conduct was always <i>‘Very Good’</i>. In 1911 census his ship, The Challenger, is shown as serving in the Australian Station.<br />
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L H Blakeney, an Able Seaman at the time, writes: <i>‘In 1911 I was in HMS Challenger, on way to Valparaiso, Chile, for Centenary celebrations. After visiting most of the large island groups we called at Tahiti, Pitcairn and Easter Island. First port of call on the West Coast of South America was Callao to coal ship and then to Valparaiso.”</i> He continues that after the celebrations, the ship called at the Panama Canal which was still under construction. <i>‘We coaled ship in 119° Fahrenheit. One chap received severe sunstroke, another became a bit funny in the head.’</i> The ship continued to Acapulco where there was <i>‘some sort of uprising’ </i>taking place before returning to Sydney via Fiji. (Naval Historical Society of Australia)<br />
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Martin’s record shows that he left the navy in 1912 and nothing is known until the reports of his death in 1918 aboard SS Boorara, whilst serving as a donkey man, a Merchant Navy stoker. The Boorara was a former German ship which had been seized in Australian waters in 1914 and renamed. It was used for carrying troops, horses and supplies and was part of the Australian Mercantile fleet.<br />
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In 2014, I received a pleasant surprise when Ray emailed a copy of a very faded photograph. He had eventually found it, filed away in a cousin’s home. No one knows which man is Martin. I can see family likenesses in both men!<br />
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I titled this piece, <i>‘One of the Forgotten Generation’</i>. It is difficult to say that Martin was ignored or forgotten within the family or perhaps just not spoken about as the generations passed. Recently published Irish records show that death was a too common experience in families at the time. His parents, Michael and Mary had both died and his sister, my grandmother, was raising twelve children at the time of his death in 1918. Ray’s grandmother was in Pennsylvania raising her family. Martin died nineteen years after enlisting and may never have returned home in that time. We do not know.<br />
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In December 2016, I was contacted by a member of the site where I had posted my request for information nine years earlier to say that the CWGC were searching for relatives of Martin Duffy as it was now confirmed that he was buried in an unmarked grave in Hollybrook Cemetery, Southampton, together with another man killed with him that day.<br />
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I contacted the organisation and was told that a headstone would now be erected by the Commonwealth Graves Commission and I was invited to suggest a memorial inscription. I spoke with Ray and relatives in Mayo and it was felt that a phrase in both Irish and English would be suitable if acceptable. <br />
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I recalled a hymn I had first heard at an Irish mass in St Mary’s Levenshulme, Manchester and suggested the lines: <i>‘I líonta Dé go gcastar sinn’ - ‘In the nets of God may we be caught’</i> and am pleased to say it was approved and was thought to be <i>‘most apt’</i>. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image used with kind permission of CWGC</td></tr>
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I am so glad that Martin will now be honoured and become one of the remembered men who gave their lives during the conflict of WW1 but more importantly is now remembered within his own family.<br />
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<i>Footnote:</i><br />
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I took a DNA test last year and in my list of close matches, Ray was the top known match as second cousin, which we knew, but do you remember Francis from 2003? There he is in the list, a likely third or fourth cousin! We were both delighted to receive the news after our chance internet encounter!<br />
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<i>Postscript:</i><br />
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CWGC have now erected a headstone for Martin. I have also been contacted by Carole, from the Portsmouth diocese who researched Martin's burial. She was able to tell me details of the funeral and also that John Grennan, who was killed with Martin, was a young Roscommon man. Carole visited the new headstone and kindly placed some flowers there.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image © Kathleen Handrick</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">© Kathleen Handrick</span></div>
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Kathleen Handrick is retired and lives in Oldham with her husband and family. She joined MIW in 2013 as a novice writer and enjoys participating in the writers’ events. Her Irish roots are in County Mayo.</div>
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-70565129186592778672017-04-23T06:00:00.000-07:002017-04-23T07:55:40.290-07:00Black Shamrock (Shammerdoo): A Poem<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By Patrick Slevin</b><br />
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<i>Dermot Healy wrote – ‘We forget what we owe to what we’ve forgotten till we encounter it again out of the corner of the eye, in passing.’ </i><br />
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<i>Shammerdoo (Seamir Dubh) is a townland near Kilkelly in county Mayo. Its meaning is black sorrel, or shamrock.</i><br />
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<b>BLACK SHAMROCK (SHAMMERDOO)</b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image used with kind permission of the Connolly family</td></tr>
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I never knew him. Not the black and white</div>
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Young man. Not the Kodachrome old. With the </div>
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Good wall behind him and the dog. The face</div>
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Ringed with lines like the map of his hill, breezes</div>
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From Paul Henry skies. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image used with kind permission of the Connolly family</td></tr>
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The grass doesn’t grow</div>
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In the mud from Mary Anne’s where he walked</div>
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Every day, only cloven prints now outlined</div>
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By green dew, and purples and blues clawing </div>
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Out from old stones. </div>
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We search to stoke fires with </div>
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Burnt tongs. </div>
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Your past and our future collide</div>
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In the present behind this barbed wire </div>
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Lock. </div>
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It reeks of the fields in here.</div>
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Old jacket still hanging behind the old </div>
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Door. Springs erupt from the mattress, unslept</div>
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And rotted with rust. You say no to opening</div>
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The flea ridden hag curtain, the doll’s house</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKafqQHxRkr9TPwwbQiUi4nWJSg3E_8i0DyV0PpVFIPsOqPMFWXa4tn-8S3ERyhVNy3W6jvnuf1iCIl27sKVxmsahVotLBXXGVyikEfGnxjje4xDs0lhe7EqgrA_kt78MFna7nS2yYJYS5/s1600/3+WP_20140602_027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKafqQHxRkr9TPwwbQiUi4nWJSg3E_8i0DyV0PpVFIPsOqPMFWXa4tn-8S3ERyhVNy3W6jvnuf1iCIl27sKVxmsahVotLBXXGVyikEfGnxjje4xDs0lhe7EqgrA_kt78MFna7nS2yYJYS5/s320/3+WP_20140602_027.jpg" title="© Patrick Slevin" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image: © Patrick Slevin</td></tr>
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He built you sits still on the floor. Rain briefly</div>
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Cracks on the wrought orange roof but the sleep</div>
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In this stead carries on, like all those days</div>
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Before. You remind me there was ten of </div>
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Them once fractioned in these three rooms. I </div>
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Stand in a doorway, it comes up to my </div>
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Neck, I almost sit down in his chair for a</div>
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Picture, by the damp dresser, by the green</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3hMQIp528kxzjKOR-TNgX5u1QhEquxlI34qZHB-4SixXhB34oBbmtoTAk2qs48qg5OrONbIGQjSO43W-u8SRbgTzTHxXbKVQjOg11ikIXPa0wMc-PGmN_X1esVY8oUq0oekgThoVgox-7/s1600/4+Red+Tiles+%2526+Mantle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3hMQIp528kxzjKOR-TNgX5u1QhEquxlI34qZHB-4SixXhB34oBbmtoTAk2qs48qg5OrONbIGQjSO43W-u8SRbgTzTHxXbKVQjOg11ikIXPa0wMc-PGmN_X1esVY8oUq0oekgThoVgox-7/s320/4+Red+Tiles+%2526+Mantle.jpg" title="© Patrick Slevin" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image: © Patrick Slevin</td></tr>
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And red tiles, clinging under the mantel,</div>
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Where a flat Christmas card warns about</div>
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Turkey, your mother’s handwriting fades in</div>
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Those misty old wishes. We both try to </div>
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Say that sweet Irish proverb, under the</div>
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White horse and trap, holding it at angles</div>
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To the tiny window, </div>
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later we learn </div>
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It reads ‘Made in Japan’. </div>
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By some leaning</div>
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Brown bottles we pick up the tongs and</div>
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Think of the fire, the other side of the </div>
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Hill. You sit on the remains, gently, of </div>
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The good wall, for a minute, it all doesn’t </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP0PpqxR7t91lrs-XKvER8uA-ZebW8jwfyhE2-SJnat_p66FinQo-AHNN9ndRbjVzGy5UHvC3_8OqvZbDaWdIVpsOqGJTo8inWmtTGthyphenhyphenhdmOVzSGzLraKwfFIGTt4FoqrC2cP1rOhmycf/s1600/5+Uncle+Dick%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP0PpqxR7t91lrs-XKvER8uA-ZebW8jwfyhE2-SJnat_p66FinQo-AHNN9ndRbjVzGy5UHvC3_8OqvZbDaWdIVpsOqGJTo8inWmtTGthyphenhyphenhdmOVzSGzLraKwfFIGTt4FoqrC2cP1rOhmycf/s320/5+Uncle+Dick%2527s.jpg" title="© Carmel Slevin" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Carmel Slevin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Seem that long ago now. I raise the tongs,</div>
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Like in Zulu, and we turn in the sun,</div>
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Shining over Shammer, treading backwards,</div>
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As fields swarm round the Callaghan place.</div>
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~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Text: © Patrick Slevin</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidmAttppNKXiefdihxF88Ekl-9-as2k3qM9cLpjwNt-88bTbUnamD2qoxq76I9VeoMSs5RxzgWhIyTEQfhs1W45fsHbMyRYyyLrnBbhdyF06GKIZJRY5WKy9FF0DmoWV7WwJxnlzvVxBVp/s1600/Patrick+Slevin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidmAttppNKXiefdihxF88Ekl-9-as2k3qM9cLpjwNt-88bTbUnamD2qoxq76I9VeoMSs5RxzgWhIyTEQfhs1W45fsHbMyRYyyLrnBbhdyF06GKIZJRY5WKy9FF0DmoWV7WwJxnlzvVxBVp/s200/Patrick+Slevin.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Patrick Slevin lives in Stockport. He has been writing poems and stories for many years.</div>
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Patrick wrote <i>'Black Shamrock (Shammerdoo)'</i> for Manchester Irish Writers' event, <i>'Echoes of Ireland'</i>, performed at the Irish World Heritage Centre Manchester on 9 March 2017. </div>
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-90079578011258803962017-04-17T03:00:00.000-07:002017-04-17T03:00:10.914-07:001916: The Risen Word<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Manchester Irish Writers marked the centenary of Ireland's Easter Rising in March 2016 with our event, </i>'1916: The Risen Word'<i> at the Irish World Heritage Centre, Manchester. For '</i>1916: the Risen Word',<i> we wrote original poems, monologues, drama and more inspired by the events of the Rising and its aftermath. MIW received the generous support of the Embassy of Ireland for this event.</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkUVGMjpXuG_z8rWSmf4Ckc_ftyyCCjDInqtIqVs1IjeCC-8_s-ukcwxxVNhJOu_S9VMo-MhpGwPDoPz46uLo99hLwDSi0eZMmRmVTXq3_sv5tdByj6MZ4QEasAF68JJLrDFSdtt4TbLDy/s1600/The+Risen+Word+MIW+Blog.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkUVGMjpXuG_z8rWSmf4Ckc_ftyyCCjDInqtIqVs1IjeCC-8_s-ukcwxxVNhJOu_S9VMo-MhpGwPDoPz46uLo99hLwDSi0eZMmRmVTXq3_sv5tdByj6MZ4QEasAF68JJLrDFSdtt4TbLDy/s320/The+Risen+Word+MIW+Blog.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>We have since published many of our pieces on this blog. For Easter 2017, here is a compilation of those posts.</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwiB92ji-uqA1tDuzIQdmTAuOyxOQHqfnuI-SwlTitZn6cRVcwGBlid4N0QVTWJyKATB-pNwHyZuTGteKmgOct1sFmtkhA27vzqo1sTIEfEOKroPMUyaen9cPfyVhF-ZdKSjGWfvftDp3b/s1600/Easter_Proclamation_of_1916.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwiB92ji-uqA1tDuzIQdmTAuOyxOQHqfnuI-SwlTitZn6cRVcwGBlid4N0QVTWJyKATB-pNwHyZuTGteKmgOct1sFmtkhA27vzqo1sTIEfEOKroPMUyaen9cPfyVhF-ZdKSjGWfvftDp3b/s320/Easter_Proclamation_of_1916.png" width="210" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2016/10/proclamation-for-all-poem.html">Proclamation for All </a></div>
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Poem by Bridie Breen</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7gxgcAa5msSsC5Pa1MwcX3EEheKv2Scl2xCg31Y4wS6N602ppYD7Le5v41f1m4DhUgkvO8Vf-EwEgnrVkY3ZiJKA1zTaTRVfOCRd-eV7m_Mv7eEGf4-JoT2yIhRM7Xavd1yoQUJJmQHHx/s1600/my+mother+outside+St.+Chad%2527s+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7gxgcAa5msSsC5Pa1MwcX3EEheKv2Scl2xCg31Y4wS6N602ppYD7Le5v41f1m4DhUgkvO8Vf-EwEgnrVkY3ZiJKA1zTaTRVfOCRd-eV7m_Mv7eEGf4-JoT2yIhRM7Xavd1yoQUJJmQHHx/s320/my+mother+outside+St.+Chad%2527s+001.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2016/06/my-mothers-life-in-manchester-in-1916.html">My Mother's Life in Manchester in 1916</a></div>
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By Barbara Aherne</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGRy_SlXa_dAuhGltXDAsBbd81oVFTL7QLdfq2YnAr3z5kiffZ0Kxiqj2IIJVeZRSEvkIcQ6XK5du5NzkiKuCdrNgxdQtZ97SzQ-CiKLer73br9DzgjVCx4s1UzJwBbVZEuqlvEGab44Bi/s1600/Pram+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGRy_SlXa_dAuhGltXDAsBbd81oVFTL7QLdfq2YnAr3z5kiffZ0Kxiqj2IIJVeZRSEvkIcQ6XK5du5NzkiKuCdrNgxdQtZ97SzQ-CiKLer73br9DzgjVCx4s1UzJwBbVZEuqlvEGab44Bi/s320/Pram+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/beauty-born-poem.html">Beauty Born</a></div>
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Poem by E.M. Powell</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQ1kJrbJwi6QPLm8oXjtukKvSdS-2idD11JIKTC-Epf-mbjqZH9mMRlF_xHwupflfUyttMwNYn9TeEk-uOB9EBhhNiMv-uuNq57Ejp-6k498fIIfwCpAlkjTU_U2q2I2C-9LPVD0zZ8gU/s1600/Kilmainham+Gaol.+Dublin%252C+Ireland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJQ1kJrbJwi6QPLm8oXjtukKvSdS-2idD11JIKTC-Epf-mbjqZH9mMRlF_xHwupflfUyttMwNYn9TeEk-uOB9EBhhNiMv-uuNq57Ejp-6k498fIIfwCpAlkjTU_U2q2I2C-9LPVD0zZ8gU/s320/Kilmainham+Gaol.+Dublin%252C+Ireland.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2017/04/proclaim-dream-poem.html">Proclaim the Dream</a><br />
Poem by Rose Morris<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbdwX7ewVmNoyZZKXOqKku5t756RwKOutztA9bqsQr80jvq2jp9heKMwrRuZKvJcLnI0dOzG_GH1CY7VUrVJBwPWgZnD2cNat0ofhub5QUhtv07ZM_v_amJEVgYnulJ27iLXsb_ZrJcSO/s1600/ireland+2011+156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbdwX7ewVmNoyZZKXOqKku5t756RwKOutztA9bqsQr80jvq2jp9heKMwrRuZKvJcLnI0dOzG_GH1CY7VUrVJBwPWgZnD2cNat0ofhub5QUhtv07ZM_v_amJEVgYnulJ27iLXsb_ZrJcSO/s320/ireland+2011+156.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/michael-rogers-seanachai-monologue-part_29.html">Michael Rogers, Seanachai: Monologue Part I</a></div>
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<a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2016/06/michael-rogers-seanachai-monologue-part_5.html">Michael Rogers, Seanachai: Monologue Part II</a></div>
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By Kathleen Handrick<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSq7l1DY2-k3QLa_bHNt1JcJzaQ-KeZQdUKWjulHO1WrQ-9q6fymQ1pkIEr2i74QcNuSIVpR95GqvA8icU6O4YJcmsmOzG4dRA_RtHBelEn_Yzoue9OY7s5GAJRM5xF3MqlAsBsS9eW5Lq/s1600/Screenshot+NMI+Twitter.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSq7l1DY2-k3QLa_bHNt1JcJzaQ-KeZQdUKWjulHO1WrQ-9q6fymQ1pkIEr2i74QcNuSIVpR95GqvA8icU6O4YJcmsmOzG4dRA_RtHBelEn_Yzoue9OY7s5GAJRM5xF3MqlAsBsS9eW5Lq/s320/Screenshot+NMI+Twitter.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2017/04/elizabeths-vanishing-brogues-poem.html">Elizabeth's Vanishing Brogues</a><br />
Poem by Kevin McMahon<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC8J_CJr6j97xxDtI9PNlJv4Qkuq_Ncqba735UEU-xXByiIBohwWg1UpPS0RHnRLwSQlo2W_gSbuPCgwH1o_ArqsozxgoD2l1qegjiG5Tv3zFcRjhUQ8u32FBiwDurmQv9QxhJudDeBEN2/s1600/1+Constance_Markiewicz_by_John_Butler_Yeats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC8J_CJr6j97xxDtI9PNlJv4Qkuq_Ncqba735UEU-xXByiIBohwWg1UpPS0RHnRLwSQlo2W_gSbuPCgwH1o_ArqsozxgoD2l1qegjiG5Tv3zFcRjhUQ8u32FBiwDurmQv9QxhJudDeBEN2/s320/1+Constance_Markiewicz_by_John_Butler_Yeats.jpg" width="223" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2017/01/constance-markievicz-revolutionary.html">Constance Markievicz: The Revolutionary Countess</a></div>
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By Marion Riley</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRJv7naPjnRNlnkElOhtHZ4Lx9267ufINiSO7jVyHr6tgkLOZFPmRXFlauhXzHDgGQx7-pw4P0vpwyPpcLKIZzNucfoOVTytB0mkaZLAIV2w_kCWLyqZeUzAFwkHxsfeBa8Ltp-K24Att6/s1600/2014-04-21+16.47.00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRJv7naPjnRNlnkElOhtHZ4Lx9267ufINiSO7jVyHr6tgkLOZFPmRXFlauhXzHDgGQx7-pw4P0vpwyPpcLKIZzNucfoOVTytB0mkaZLAIV2w_kCWLyqZeUzAFwkHxsfeBa8Ltp-K24Att6/s320/2014-04-21+16.47.00.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2016/11/independence-indifference-thoughts-on.html">Independence Indifference: Thoughts on the Easter Rising</a></div>
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By Des Farry</div>
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<a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/summer-1979-poem.html">Summer 1979</a><br />
Poem by Patrick Slevin<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKKfhy4vu969ne1kEQ8mGZ76-dgOvL9VYnxd1JsReVDgOx7I9X79JfqtcSIssBhE_1w0q0Y1chUEp1MIEGOegeJ-5_BMOOqYCU20qVqm1Qg0IvWpjMOtI10eRGbYWj0UnrM4D2kUQUQQ_/s1600/Flowers+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKKfhy4vu969ne1kEQ8mGZ76-dgOvL9VYnxd1JsReVDgOx7I9X79JfqtcSIssBhE_1w0q0Y1chUEp1MIEGOegeJ-5_BMOOqYCU20qVqm1Qg0IvWpjMOtI10eRGbYWj0UnrM4D2kUQUQQ_/s320/Flowers+1.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
<a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2016/06/both-sides-of-divide-poem.html">Both Sides of the Divide</a><br />
Poem by Martha Ashwell<br />
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-72309373513146465762017-04-16T07:25:00.001-07:002017-04-16T07:25:53.676-07:00Elizabeth’s Vanishing Brogues: A Poem<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By Kevin McMahon</b><br />
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<i>Elizabeth O’Farrell was a member of Cumann na mBan, and acted as a dispatcher both before and during the Rising. She was sent, under a white flag, to deliver the surrender to the British military on Saturday 29th April. Despite the white flag, she initially came under fire, and was fortunate to remain unharmed. Brigadier General Lowe demanded that Padraig Pearse deliver an unconditional surrender to him, personally. He also admired Elizabeth’s courage, and insisted that she should accompany Pearse. A press photographer captured the moment of this surrender, but Elizabeth, who stepped back, can only be glimpsed – her feet visible behind Pearse’s.</i><br />
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<i>Later that momentous photograph was edited, to remove the offending legs and feet, and came to symbolise the eclipsing of the very significant role played in the Rising by many brave women, and even of the Revolutionaries’ vision of gender equality in a new Ireland.</i><br />
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<i>This poem is about that photograph.</i><br />
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<b>ELIZABETH'S VANISHING BROGUES</b></div>
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i.m. Elizabeth O’Farrell</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEa1pGLLE_BSUcAG3bGDFv8s5bbORNtONX_tpjIbo8pLk7lHO_Jk1Whd_kMv9rmeydmUXKhbj25z3ve_Ch68mEAav1ksW-Hx5jPHlGwJL7fnkn5xT1GRTLg3PyjRWW-3cJp5Y0Fni1QP1R/s1600/Screenshot+NMI+Twitter.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEa1pGLLE_BSUcAG3bGDFv8s5bbORNtONX_tpjIbo8pLk7lHO_Jk1Whd_kMv9rmeydmUXKhbj25z3ve_Ch68mEAav1ksW-Hx5jPHlGwJL7fnkn5xT1GRTLg3PyjRWW-3cJp5Y0Fni1QP1R/s400/Screenshot+NMI+Twitter.png" title="Twitter @NMIreland" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The photograph of Elizabeth behind Pearse.<br /><a href="https://twitter.com/NMIreland/status/839581688678215690">Twitter: National Museum of Ireland @NMIreland</a></td></tr>
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A pair of tiny shoes – size four at most – </div>
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Protruding from the hem of Pearse’s coat,</div>
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Was caught on film in the moment of defeat,</div>
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As Lizzie chose to step back in his shade.</div>
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A minor point of little weight you’d think,</div>
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But when the public tide flowed Padraig’s way</div>
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Such tiny flaws could humanise the myth,</div>
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So Lizzie’s brogues were airbrushed from the frame.</div>
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Elizabeth, I’m sure you couldn’t know</div>
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That you’d become a symbol of the shift</div>
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Of Proclamation pledges set aside</div>
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As Ireland was exchanging tyrannies.</div>
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So “civil liberties and rights for all”</div>
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And hopes of “cherishing” – was that the word? – </div>
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“All children of the nation equally”,</div>
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Retreated for another hundred years</div>
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Behind the stole and veil, with downcast eyes</div>
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That failed to see the airbrushing of dreams.</div>
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<i>The National Library of Ireland has an online 1916 exhibition. You can find the photograph of Elizabeth and Pearse, along with many others, in the section '</i><span style="text-align: center;"><i>The Surrender'. You can find the section and access the whole exhibition <a href="http://www.nli.ie/1916/exhibition/en/content/surrender/">here. </a></i></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Text © Kevin McMahon</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNncqBTwGOEpApFVd4tepQclDH4jY6RBwd-YzocEA1S29yzFpntA8-jxnlsXAd52L71ts8raG7cPFn5itUvnF9gWV23dJybmC_ykIH28OIgAJ1jj8_dpF8cNitdWyR4fyH-Hl9t6RHHEg/s1600/Kevin+McMahon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNncqBTwGOEpApFVd4tepQclDH4jY6RBwd-YzocEA1S29yzFpntA8-jxnlsXAd52L71ts8raG7cPFn5itUvnF9gWV23dJybmC_ykIH28OIgAJ1jj8_dpF8cNitdWyR4fyH-Hl9t6RHHEg/s200/Kevin+McMahon.JPG" width="136" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">Kevin has been a member of Manchester Irish Writers since 1998 – with a few years’ absence due to work commitments prior to his retirement! He has contributed to the group’s publications <i>“The Retting Dam”</i>, “<i>Stones of the Heart”</i> and <i>“Changing Skies”</i>, and regularly performs at the group’s events. He is a former winner of the “New Writing” award at Listowel Writers’ Week in Country Kerry, and has been shortlisted for a number of other awards for memoirs and short stories. With Alrene Hughes, Kevin co-edited the publication of monologues arising from the “Changing Skies” project. His scripts have been professionally performed in various venues, and he has had poetry broadcast on the BBC.</span></div>
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-42328954860141435382017-04-15T12:05:00.000-07:002017-04-16T04:52:13.676-07:00Proclaim the Dream: A Poem<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By Rose Morris</b><br />
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<i>Why were many of the poets and writers of the Irish Cultural Revival at the beginning of the 20th century motivated to take up arms to fight for Irish Freedom? Why did some of them enlist to fight in the first World War?</i><br />
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<i>For the latter I bring to mind Francis Ledwidge and Tom Kettle who were both preparing to fight for Irish freedom but decided instead to enlist in the British Army following John Redmond’s speech at Woodenbridge when he called on the Irish Volunteers 'to go wherever the firing line extends'.</i><br />
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<i>Tom Kettle wrote a poem for his baby daughter, Betty, to try and explain his own reason for deserting her and going to war in France where he died in September 1916. He wanted her to know that he didn’t die for a king or a country, but “for a dream, that was born in a herdsman’s shed” and for ‘ the sacred scriptures of the poor'.</i><br />
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<i>All the executed leaders of the 1916 Rising had their dreams too and they also left behind letters and parting words to their loved ones and these lines equally live on in this shared history.</i><br />
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<b>PROCLAIM THE DREAM</b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNGS6bIwA0neNVkj_rTLwXe1Se3ftVhopSfS6R5SwWF9XH9OQAlZ_LT68uBD2FmN6PPvw4YyW1W5k6TN9CSl72HmBdAIYQZDKND-8qgAseCFyI5fKyUny3MtgGGDmlQq3eCq7G1XqnpSkN/s1600/Kilmainham+Gaol.+Dublin%252C+Ireland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNGS6bIwA0neNVkj_rTLwXe1Se3ftVhopSfS6R5SwWF9XH9OQAlZ_LT68uBD2FmN6PPvw4YyW1W5k6TN9CSl72HmBdAIYQZDKND-8qgAseCFyI5fKyUny3MtgGGDmlQq3eCq7G1XqnpSkN/s320/Kilmainham+Gaol.+Dublin%252C+Ireland.jpg" title="Photo credit: Carl Mikoy via Visualhunt.com / CC BY 2.0" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kilmainham Gaol. Dublin, Ireland<br />
<a href="https://visualhunt.com/f/photo/8544229522/e551b7b5b3/">Photo credit: Carl Mikoy via Visualhunt.com / CC BY 2.0</a></td></tr>
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Whether the dream was born in a herdsman’s shed </div>
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Or died in a stone breakers’ yard it still lives on </div>
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Through rhyme and reason in many a heart, </div>
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A revised history, a contested legacy </div>
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Some will look back and call it sublime</div>
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Some will say it was a glorious madness</div>
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The bittern will cry in the wild sky unheard </div>
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And Pearce will have gone his way in sadness</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-kbu7mEVqJA-BaOP8JMc96SU0mlbilLCG_p15CDKr_uClvpb02KdVELD3CRFjcPNZ5TXm-X-BQ373YSj8_7RvB_ze11rNaGYH9zN59v2n5Tx3P_E6PnGfWrS_gaatIqnTw2K2aNgVPis/s1600/Patrick_Pearse_cph.3b15294.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-kbu7mEVqJA-BaOP8JMc96SU0mlbilLCG_p15CDKr_uClvpb02KdVELD3CRFjcPNZ5TXm-X-BQ373YSj8_7RvB_ze11rNaGYH9zN59v2n5Tx3P_E6PnGfWrS_gaatIqnTw2K2aNgVPis/s320/Patrick_Pearse_cph.3b15294.jpg" title="Patrick Pearse Image: Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patrick Pearse<br />
<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Patrick_Pearse_cph.3b15294.jpg">Image: Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons</a></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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Betty may have grown up cherishing her father’s lines </div>
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Believing that he lies in shame with the foolish dead,</div>
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Where he fell at Ginchy, buried in some unknown grave</div>
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No honour, just blame, she a child of circumstance.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUQ5e4D6dvT_ricgqDLANyyylfn4wQSYeuIhuegmgJ22gfvxRs5AlRTmxWfX9VR4K3xVoCADBPJXyPxCeAQEa8tOcxXO5LcaHP5IElxM23ybrs96m6_9VAqeuCcrkyDq-8-slmQUXpYkVQ/s1600/Thomas_Michael_Kettle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUQ5e4D6dvT_ricgqDLANyyylfn4wQSYeuIhuegmgJ22gfvxRs5AlRTmxWfX9VR4K3xVoCADBPJXyPxCeAQEa8tOcxXO5LcaHP5IElxM23ybrs96m6_9VAqeuCcrkyDq-8-slmQUXpYkVQ/s320/Thomas_Michael_Kettle.jpg" title="Thomas Kettle Image: Public domain, via Wikimedia Common" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thomas Kettle<br />
<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Thomas_Michael_Kettle.jpg?uselang=en-gb">Image: Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons</a></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The sixteen who died for Ireland’s freedom</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Will be more remembered for their gallant part,</div>
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Fifteen face a firing squad in Kilmainham prison yard.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Roger Casement to hang on the gallows in Pentonville</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkiHC-jcYsVxrir2nWAc5qQU5xzcOcxz6pn6sCyUtwMdD4L2v7tUHtKxm1fOCqIwxpAIwnJeOFhGa_ATRm3BjkmlUdyxzuWt9c02_Ls8-q97mxjrREBf7JY1lkaM5TkuRPDXeo6hKKUiBG/s1600/Roger+Casement.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkiHC-jcYsVxrir2nWAc5qQU5xzcOcxz6pn6sCyUtwMdD4L2v7tUHtKxm1fOCqIwxpAIwnJeOFhGa_ATRm3BjkmlUdyxzuWt9c02_Ls8-q97mxjrREBf7JY1lkaM5TkuRPDXeo6hKKUiBG/s320/Roger+Casement.jpg" title=" Roger Casement NLI Flickr / No Known Copyright Restrictions" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roger Casement<br />
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/nlireland/6188264610/in/photolist-aqQttq-gVVXJN-wV6G7d">NLI Flickr / No Known Copyright Restrictions</a></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tearful mothers, weeping wives, lamenting lovers </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Take away lines and letters and parting gifts </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
As brave men say last farewells and give reasons,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Denying futility, claiming the supreme sacrifice</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
“Your life, Seán, your beautiful life.”</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mary, take these four buttons from my coat,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The only gift Mac Diarmada had left to give</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Joseph, my little man, be a priest if you can.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8iwxRWVm7TiERQ7g1_9JhkIArW5MWl74632HRwmLdRU2q8mmUwNwF7xRgPtP08heYw4Ip5nViQb5opKetG_-5-AHQ_nTiYeiZhhMPANmMhy-cKC4P-cXfE5ewYQfsTe1A-h_qqgzrdVO/s1600/Sean+McDiarmada.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8iwxRWVm7TiERQ7g1_9JhkIArW5MWl74632HRwmLdRU2q8mmUwNwF7xRgPtP08heYw4Ip5nViQb5opKetG_-5-AHQ_nTiYeiZhhMPANmMhy-cKC4P-cXfE5ewYQfsTe1A-h_qqgzrdVO/s320/Sean+McDiarmada.jpg" title="Seán Mac Diarmada NLI Flickr / No Known Copyright Restriction" width="229" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seán Mac Diarmada<br />
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/nlireland/25103220885/in/photolist-dWpibE-e4GLX5-dypMrT-bz4nwn-9PfTdc-dXC2Pv-r2yZ5Y-aRPN1i-GyDfTT-aVJkmn-DPXDNC-a84Avs-E92nse-EfhyZc-DA51qU-xMWmTo-wkmGPq-TDnQRr">NLI Flickr / No Known Copyright Restrictions</a></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Counting the cost, McDonagh was ready to pay </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And ‘his song floated upwards on the wings of daring’.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Ceannt faced the firing squad after his confession</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Content that Ireland had shown she was a nation</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3uO_qypqBbyiFAeOU6j9S37igLPx4nhfpQ3v-pOVN-XbznYSBNFZx0nB6_sk_YBtZmXpqHyJ4KvT7Sgielqp9U4I8cJdFdjdxtdliiHvSlgI1eNqtcmfxgT4SQGUHdT-KmMjgdXSUyqP6/s1600/Thomas+McDonagh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3uO_qypqBbyiFAeOU6j9S37igLPx4nhfpQ3v-pOVN-XbznYSBNFZx0nB6_sk_YBtZmXpqHyJ4KvT7Sgielqp9U4I8cJdFdjdxtdliiHvSlgI1eNqtcmfxgT4SQGUHdT-KmMjgdXSUyqP6/s320/Thomas+McDonagh.jpg" title="Thomas McDonagh NLI Flickr /No Known Copyright Restrictions" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thomas McDonagh<br />
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/nlireland/24469972256/in/photolist-Dhk1eo">NLI Flickr /No Known Copyright Restrictions</a></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Heuston died on a soap box, a youthful, calm and fearless face</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Joseph Plunkett went to death husband to his darling Grace</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Marriage vows exchanged in the prison chapel, bayonets fixed</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
To the witness words of the Enniskillens chanting prayers.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Beside crucifix carrying priests they walked at dawn</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
To where a wooden box and sand bags marked a place,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Where they stood to wait, blindfolded and hands bound, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Before their writhing bodies fell on blood they jointly shed. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2BFRPsNTvxvhE7nFTflxBMZCSHOR88wNdhj4uENNBE8UUjCHxcZDqQLkWDPP22nyljr0bQPCh2hLdF4GFfnK781nlIVm53FO8p6CwDps2IX6fUcTiUU1nL0SLiFvchJfUvf_rs178F4eT/s1600/Kilmainham_Gaol_%25288140000349%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2BFRPsNTvxvhE7nFTflxBMZCSHOR88wNdhj4uENNBE8UUjCHxcZDqQLkWDPP22nyljr0bQPCh2hLdF4GFfnK781nlIVm53FO8p6CwDps2IX6fUcTiUU1nL0SLiFvchJfUvf_rs178F4eT/s320/Kilmainham_Gaol_%25288140000349%2529.jpg" title="Image by: psyberartist (Kilmainham Gaol)/ Wikimedia Commons (CC BY 2.0)" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kilmainham Gaol<br />
<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Kilmainham_Gaol_(8140000349).jpg?uselang=en-gb">Image by: psyberartist (Kilmainham Gaol)/ Wikimedia Commons (CC BY 2.0)</a></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
‘Untie my hands, remove the blindfold’. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Wishes of McBride, duty bound, the officer denied.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A white target square upon his breast, Con Colbert </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Moved it to a higher place, upon his heart to rest. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Thomas Clarke entrusted to his wife a final message</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
To let the Irish people know that he and fellow-signatories </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Had struck the first successful blow for freedom</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And the next blow would win through’. He died happy.</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmUjgGyg3DejLQiJkBHTlftcCUoli3IPG8mrfHP0LRHziExowRS1zshZ4CGEGMaxYRD2wfP8uRrJvJTWWL0N6AOKINUaHHyx3i2gUzOjGNzCT9bHhEDsH7vX0aXGTa0G-Du-USh69UNLNs/s1600/Michael+O%2527Hanrahan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmUjgGyg3DejLQiJkBHTlftcCUoli3IPG8mrfHP0LRHziExowRS1zshZ4CGEGMaxYRD2wfP8uRrJvJTWWL0N6AOKINUaHHyx3i2gUzOjGNzCT9bHhEDsH7vX0aXGTa0G-Du-USh69UNLNs/s320/Michael+O%2527Hanrahan.jpg" title="Michael O'Hanrahan NLI Flickr / No Known Copyright Restrictions" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael O'Hanrahan<br />
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/nlireland/26623667841/in/photolist-dWpibE-e4GLX5-dypMrT-bz4nwn-9PfTdc-dXC2Pv-r2yZ5Y-aRPN1i-GyDfTT-aVJkmn-DPXDNC-a84Avs-E92nse-EfhyZc-DA51qU-xMWmTo-wkmGPq-TDnQRr">NLI Flickr / No Known Copyright Restrictions</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Hanrahan, Daly and Willie Pearce joined freely in the fight</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And walked to death as brave as any that had gone before.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Men of vision, Sons of Ireland, faithful and they fought</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And the dream lived on in the conscious heart of a nation.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5j6qPLMdGgV-M98PCLMtKmJLv6HEsuO2WpPVNWbfUkejfCRtCVo1c4q2iwXTYZGRkLkF751ovzqwenDt41jhObglgXhTpRdPyRKSmEeXr0X_jrFuIVQDCBxXclq1jdDPWEvEbgh9wcNfG/s1600/Irish_Sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5j6qPLMdGgV-M98PCLMtKmJLv6HEsuO2WpPVNWbfUkejfCRtCVo1c4q2iwXTYZGRkLkF751ovzqwenDt41jhObglgXhTpRdPyRKSmEeXr0X_jrFuIVQDCBxXclq1jdDPWEvEbgh9wcNfG/s320/Irish_Sky.jpg" title="Image by: By Fabiog82 (Own work)Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 3.0)" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Irish Sky<br />
<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Irish_Sky.jpg?uselang=en-gb">Image by: By Fabiog82 (Own work)Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 3.0)</a></td></tr>
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<div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: left;">
~~~~~~~~~~</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Text: © Rose Morris</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSfb4dsPYPVp6zuSh3b7AD5reDBnldvK3gzx-NtEJu0Uk4JiLr-oPoN8PBlJZHo3v9a7MezVjtWxsWPpEbTNZNDjIi0wPSXOFUTjtmJ4VkkdxC_pcHWoM_HORBydEzdYAsuqAU4R_C1k0/s1600/Rose+Morris.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSfb4dsPYPVp6zuSh3b7AD5reDBnldvK3gzx-NtEJu0Uk4JiLr-oPoN8PBlJZHo3v9a7MezVjtWxsWPpEbTNZNDjIi0wPSXOFUTjtmJ4VkkdxC_pcHWoM_HORBydEzdYAsuqAU4R_C1k0/s200/Rose+Morris.jpeg" width="161" /></a></div>
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Rose Morris was born near Dungannon, in Co. Tyrone. Having retired from a career in Art and Design Education in Greater Manchester she now spends more time pursuing her creative interests and involvement in community projects in Manchester and County Tyrone.</div>
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She co-founded the Manchester Irish Writers group with Alrene Hughes in 1994.</div>
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Her continued involvement and sharing within that group has greatly enhanced the development of her own writing. </div>
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Her short stories, monologues and poetry have been included in the Manchester Irish Writers’ published collections; <i>The End of the Rodden</i>, <i>The Retting Dam</i>, <i>Stone of the Heart</i>, <i>Drawing Breath</i> and <i>Changing Skies.</i></div>
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Rose wrote <i>'Proclaim the Dream'</i> 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.</div>
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-55032653925018819812017-04-09T10:17:00.000-07:002017-04-09T10:17:11.657-07:00Boots on the Ground: Researching Medieval Ireland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By E.M. Powell</b><br />
<br />
The island of Ireland occupied a unique place in the medieval world. It was, as far as the millions of inhabitants of Europe were concerned, It. Nothing else existed to the west (sorry, Americas). In a seventh century letter to the Pope, Saint Columbanus refers to the Irish as the <i>‘Dwellers at the Earth’s Edge.’ </i>And even by the twelfth century, Gerald of Wales, royal clerk to England’s King Henry II, still confirmed Ireland as <i>‘the farthest western lands…Beyond the whole horizon only the ocean flows and is borne on in endless space.’</i><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetv_WdDAnBr6ynQNyGLXKMKtvcLTVMYNaqP_4yuWZeP5nLFCLAjfY5pJQMmFoxL0HgYLg1sfMuW0-hiPKZ-sCB4JohkVAoHuH-3AGtZE_tcZSCUjkMf7HufCGparx4QaYM-E53x9hFs4d/s1600/1+Ireland%2527s+Atlantic+Coast%252C+Co.+Cork.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetv_WdDAnBr6ynQNyGLXKMKtvcLTVMYNaqP_4yuWZeP5nLFCLAjfY5pJQMmFoxL0HgYLg1sfMuW0-hiPKZ-sCB4JohkVAoHuH-3AGtZE_tcZSCUjkMf7HufCGparx4QaYM-E53x9hFs4d/s320/1+Ireland%2527s+Atlantic+Coast%252C+Co.+Cork.JPG" title="© E.M. Powell" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ireland’s Atlantic Coast, Co. Cork. <br />© E.M. Powell</td></tr>
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<br />
Now, Henry had a keen interest in Ireland and, as it happens, so do I—it being the land of my birth and all. But I also have a keen interest in Henry. The first two books in my medieval thriller Fifth Knight series have featured my fictional hero, Sir Benedict Palmer, in Henry’s service. Henry first arrived in Ireland in 1171. He had already sent troops there and he wanted to stamp his authority on it. But by 1185 it was in a state of major unrest, with native Irish kings and Henry’s Anglo-Norman barons who had taken Irish lands fighting it out for power.<br />
<br />
The King had an ingenious solution: make his eighteen year old son Lord of Ireland and send him over to sort it out. And that son was John. Yes—the John who would one day be the infamous Bad King John. It says something about a British Royal when even Disney has a pop at them. John’s portrayal as a thumb-sucking lion prince in the classic animation Robin Hood is only one of many unflattering portrayals of him.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjjp4U_s20les79r8JTJP4wP_MtJt-yTm2FFAB6Vu9HnTgx85IBxxDZyWTBm0mD9AvzwvlP6uyBshAQ1LWRWSVE42AxSPMWAnEdATnTEmCdKGI43M6SS8eC-cx5LCbHvsqB49bXu1dTPho/s1600/2+King+John.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjjp4U_s20les79r8JTJP4wP_MtJt-yTm2FFAB6Vu9HnTgx85IBxxDZyWTBm0mD9AvzwvlP6uyBshAQ1LWRWSVE42AxSPMWAnEdATnTEmCdKGI43M6SS8eC-cx5LCbHvsqB49bXu1dTPho/s320/2+King+John.JPG" title="© E.M. Powell" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">King John, as depicted c1372 on The Great Charter Roll in Waterford’s Medieval Museum. <br />© E.M. Powell</td></tr>
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<br />
Trouble is, they aren’t far off the mark. John acquired his terrible reputation by simply being John. Suffice to say, his campaign in Ireland was a disaster—a gift to me as a novelist. A further gift was that the King’s clerk, Gerald, went with John, leaving us many first-hand accounts of what went on. And so, book #3, <i><a href="http://mybook.to/The_Lord_of_Ireland">The Lord of Ireland</a></i>, was born.<br />
<br />
Of course I couldn’t send Sir Benedict Palmer off to the earth’s edge without first checking out the locations myself. Most historical fiction authors like to get their research feet on the ground where possible, and I’m no exception, especially when it involves a trip to Ireland.<br />
<br />
John landed at the Port of Waterford on the south east coast on April 25 1185, with three hundred knights in tow. Still standing tall on Waterford’s quay is the medieval Reginald’s Tower, part of the old city’s fortifications which date from the time of the Vikings.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3oVyjzYjqMW8HtbjDds8ltyrGkEtLnGN56ChPcTjVB-cilELHVTqu0vUIH7kZdEJ9mAvxCPHRs5BA6OhxSlBn1MXYqWHE4zcGNyPw82Jz_m-NKVTC7jvUEnIEKeMPDZRI3oNRlAAUliJU/s1600/3+Reginald%2527s+Tower%252C+Waterford+City.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3oVyjzYjqMW8HtbjDds8ltyrGkEtLnGN56ChPcTjVB-cilELHVTqu0vUIH7kZdEJ9mAvxCPHRs5BA6OhxSlBn1MXYqWHE4zcGNyPw82Jz_m-NKVTC7jvUEnIEKeMPDZRI3oNRlAAUliJU/s320/3+Reginald%2527s+Tower%252C+Waterford+City.JPG" title="© E.M. Powell" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reginald’s Tower, Waterford City. <br />© E.M. Powell</td></tr>
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While the Tower would have looked a bit different in John’s day, we do know precisely what he did as he stood outside it. A group of powerful Irish chieftains came to pay tribute to him as Henry’s representative, greeting him as their lord. John’s response? Well, according to Gerald, John <i>‘pulled some of them about by their beards, which were large and flowing according to the native custom.’</i> Suitably angered and very unimpressed, the Irish made for the court of one of the Irish kings, where they reported back on the insults and how John was <i>‘a mere youth…a stripling who only listened to youthful advice.’ </i>Worse, they decided that rather than make peace with John, they would <i>‘plot to resist [John’s force]…guard the privileges of their ancient freedom’</i> with their lives, and <i>‘make pacts’</i> to resist him. Oh, John.<br />
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Meanwhile, John began making grants of land to his own friends— land that loyal supporters of Henry already held. The result, according to Gerald, was that those who were dispossessed <i>‘went over to the side of the enemy.’</i> But John carried on. He set about establishing castles to take control of the land. We know from Gerald that there were three sites: Tibberaghny, in Co. Kilkenny, Ardfinnan in Co. Tipperary and Lismore in Co. Waterford. Nothing remains of these structures, which were probably made of wood.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ1bF5kTR_t-B6aeEd50E_r4iOb8-mqhyefaSgE6Ght_5yq5KSf5LfB3Cvw9EQy2qXVmmiOySFSubtMF1fRK0Sm-X_mwS6n5awL5KV165Wr9q-qga5DLxqKVT7qFrvHeom8epicwm0uvjE/s1600/4+Ardfinnan+Castle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ1bF5kTR_t-B6aeEd50E_r4iOb8-mqhyefaSgE6Ght_5yq5KSf5LfB3Cvw9EQy2qXVmmiOySFSubtMF1fRK0Sm-X_mwS6n5awL5KV165Wr9q-qga5DLxqKVT7qFrvHeom8epicwm0uvjE/s320/4+Ardfinnan+Castle.JPG" title="© E.M. Powell" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ardfinnan Castle: rebuilt in the 18th & 19th Centuries.<br />© E.M. Powell</td></tr>
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<br />
When I stopped off at Tibberaghny to check out the lie of the land, a man with a stick just happened to be walking past. (Note: this always happens in Ireland. There is always a man with a stick.) He a) enquired in a roundabout way what I was up to (also what AMWAS always does) and b) announced he was off to climb Slievenamon (in Irish, Sliabh na mBan) the mountain in the distance.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIcjNilemQUG4HPrJm18vFK7xzpjK5LEchrTrA3Wf11HEUrYYmmHXSNW4B4h35rJb3GguVI0ivzZ50RCyvtx_A9hUwGZaKHI372f3q78oReFSpIymwKVyg_68EaXzP6Jlexta2_21FLEUT/s1600/5+Slievenamon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIcjNilemQUG4HPrJm18vFK7xzpjK5LEchrTrA3Wf11HEUrYYmmHXSNW4B4h35rJb3GguVI0ivzZ50RCyvtx_A9hUwGZaKHI372f3q78oReFSpIymwKVyg_68EaXzP6Jlexta2_21FLEUT/s320/5+Slievenamon.JPG" title="© E.M. Powell" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slievenamon, Co. Tipperary- the mountain of the women. <br />© E.M. Powell</td></tr>
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<br />
This was the point where it hit home that I had an extra layer of history. Yes, I was tracking the events of 800 years ago. But those boots of the Norman invaders were already tramping through history, through a land that had its unique ancient past. Slievenamon means ‘mountain of the women’. Legend has it that Fionn mac Cumhaill, Irish hero of the Fionn or Ossianic cycle of tales, and leader of a great band of warriors, chose his bride Gráinne from the winner of a group of young women who raced to meet him at the top of the mountain. Legend also has Fionn as a pragmatist: he secretly told the lovely Gráinne of a short cut, so she’d reach the summit first.<br />
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As for new arrival John in 1185, all was proceeding very badly. There were losses of life on both sides. He (or rather, his more able men) made a few gains, but his forces were well and truly routed in equal amounts by some of the native Irish kings. His less able men drank, caroused and fought with each other. When John failed to pay them, they deserted.<br />
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One would have thought that John would have accepted some responsibility for his failings. But no. Instead, he accused one of Henry’s men of treacherous dealings with the Irish. That man was Hugh de Lacy, Henry’s first Lord of Meath.<br />
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De Lacy is a major character in <i><a href="http://mybook.to/The_Lord_of_Ireland">The Lord of Ireland</a></i>. He was also a major thorn in Henry’s side, being far too good at his job for the King’s liking. He’d taken the ancient kingdom of Meath (Mide) from the Irish and constructed many castles. One was at the site of a sixth century monastery at Durrow in present day Co. Offaly. De Lacy’s mark on the land is no more. But the magnificent ninth century High Cross of Saint Colmcille still stands there, as it had done so 300 years before any Anglo-Norman’s arrival.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJkSCS5ftqj1XAbXL-1rOkugySaODISHU9jtZ4XEFMAEUWIR6yB49Ug0m9v6COKq6u_GMXKeCAxCNyeMldFsCpNyv5qvbcELovx-2WxQZ7soHrr2i8fAc4XEPS31bL3uMyXDSkWUc4lsLB/s1600/6+Durrow+High+Cross.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJkSCS5ftqj1XAbXL-1rOkugySaODISHU9jtZ4XEFMAEUWIR6yB49Ug0m9v6COKq6u_GMXKeCAxCNyeMldFsCpNyv5qvbcELovx-2WxQZ7soHrr2i8fAc4XEPS31bL3uMyXDSkWUc4lsLB/s320/6+Durrow+High+Cross.JPG" title="© E.M. Powell" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Durrow High Cross and me. The cross dates from c850. <br />© E.M. Powell</td></tr>
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De Lacy’s main castle was at Trim in Co. Meath. Trim is the largest Anglo-Norman castle in Ireland and still the best preserved and is incredibly impressive.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJCH_n9XkTm6ILQshcTmLfXTr5-Vvb0NsmUEW8PYxa7yRtFIIv5Y91NzVLAy7BVJWRD-KIjRTWoNRH4hpF0T9P5P2xb6xV2_B7QE8f5SkyD9seUgGwWp8FU4Y1d4qLX9TP_d3N_wLSpK6/s1600/7+Trim+Castle+Exterior.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicJCH_n9XkTm6ILQshcTmLfXTr5-Vvb0NsmUEW8PYxa7yRtFIIv5Y91NzVLAy7BVJWRD-KIjRTWoNRH4hpF0T9P5P2xb6xV2_B7QE8f5SkyD9seUgGwWp8FU4Y1d4qLX9TP_d3N_wLSpK6/s320/7+Trim+Castle+Exterior.JPG" title="© E.M. Powell" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hugh de Lacy’s Trim Castle. <br />© E.M. Powell</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHwGYvkUjW-hstaREFv9gN69lzs__K9I5d5xhlJmlop1X44M9QUZ4Fhp0xMLexUhe_HIQ2jq742ICURVXROWp4U-3u_UGOvJW7ZVjRLjuIIQzJL0xY4_84FhAYaxBUwYLclwr6FI0eTmSL/s1600/8+Trim+Castle+Interior.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHwGYvkUjW-hstaREFv9gN69lzs__K9I5d5xhlJmlop1X44M9QUZ4Fhp0xMLexUhe_HIQ2jq742ICURVXROWp4U-3u_UGOvJW7ZVjRLjuIIQzJL0xY4_84FhAYaxBUwYLclwr6FI0eTmSL/s320/8+Trim+Castle+Interior.JPG" title="© E.M. Powell" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trim Castle Interior.<br />© E.M. Powell</td></tr>
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He’d also married a daughter of Rory O’Connor, the Irish High King. Some chroniclers suggest that de Lacy was lining up to take all of Ireland from Henry. We know John scuttled off to Dublin where he stayed until returning to Henry in December 1185, complaining bitterly about the Irish and Hugh de Lacy and blaming de Lacy for his failure.<br />
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In my novel, I add an extra layer. I needed a large monastery for the murdering climax of the book. And as large holy houses go, they don’t come much bigger than the Rock of Cashel. We don’t know if John ever visited, but Henry and Hugh de Lacy had stayed during the 1171 campaign. And to my joy, two of the buildings that stand now were there in 1185. Cormac’s Chapel was consecrated in 1134, magnificent inside and out.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-BTHmLt9gRiWUDuvp0ovsLs9IlVvKaCqJqjl6p_JsiKZZG0mnVWkSSo_U9S-IWjOk1RdaUEs9MYKAWszmA8WSPnRO6gUVz5KPwi5z_zsFzP5YFF-VMlexOZe9NX-xBtLe3tRQHlJ-k_h/s1600/9+Interior+of+Cormac%2527s+Chapel%252C+Cashel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-BTHmLt9gRiWUDuvp0ovsLs9IlVvKaCqJqjl6p_JsiKZZG0mnVWkSSo_U9S-IWjOk1RdaUEs9MYKAWszmA8WSPnRO6gUVz5KPwi5z_zsFzP5YFF-VMlexOZe9NX-xBtLe3tRQHlJ-k_h/s320/9+Interior+of+Cormac%2527s+Chapel%252C+Cashel.JPG" title="© E.M. Powell" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interior of Cormac’s Chapel, Cashel. <br />© E.M. Powell</td></tr>
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<br />And oldest of all, its Round Tower built around 1100. No one is quite sure what the exact purpose of Round Towers was, though they probably housed bells and valuables. But the architectural shape and form of Round Towers is unique to Ireland. They do things differently at the earth’s edge, y’know.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA_f0SavzbRlW2NJxYMF9tyBP5oEyGyIAgJWuHrzpSzLutpYL1jNfDECvOLZmbnvfzxxIkdDlJ9j-Z-py8h6BEQYNfUigjwIGU_5sH-rE4l6boDbz7ftllIV_OkmD860kHza1pUxhvpAYL/s1600/10+Round+Tower+%2526+Cathedral%252C+Cashel+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA_f0SavzbRlW2NJxYMF9tyBP5oEyGyIAgJWuHrzpSzLutpYL1jNfDECvOLZmbnvfzxxIkdDlJ9j-Z-py8h6BEQYNfUigjwIGU_5sH-rE4l6boDbz7ftllIV_OkmD860kHza1pUxhvpAYL/s320/10+Round+Tower+%2526+Cathedral%252C+Cashel+%25282%2529.JPG" title="© E.M. Powell" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Round Tower & 13th Century Cathedral, Cashel.<br />© E.M. Powell</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Text & Images © E.M. Powell</span><br />
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MIW member E.M. Powell was born in Cork City into the family of Michael Collins. She now lives in Manchester with her husband, daughter and a Facebook-friendly dog. Her medieval thriller Fifth Knight series has reached bestseller lists in the U.S., the U.K. and Germany. Book #3 in the series, <i><a href="http://mybook.to/The_Lord_of_Ireland">The Lord of Ireland</a></i>, was released in 2016. She is also a contributing editor to International Thriller Writers The Big Thrill magazine, blogs for English Historical Fiction Authors and is the social media manager for the Historical Novel Society. Find out more by visiting <a href="http://www.empowell.com/">www.empowell.com</a><br />
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-63464443911536861142017-03-08T10:37:00.000-08:002017-03-08T10:38:10.675-08:00The Death of Helena Blunden: Short Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By Martha Ashwell</b><br />
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<i>In my previous post for this blog, I wrote about the life of Helena Blunden. Helena was a Belfast mill girl (Millie) who was a talented singer but who sadly met an untimely death at a young age. You can find that post </i><b><a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2017/02/working-in-linen-mills-of-belfast-life.html">here</a></b><i>. This post is my fictional account of Helena's tragic demise.</i><br />
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<b>THE DEATH OF HELENA BLUNDEN</b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/britishlibrary/11077018333/in/photolist-hSPeEr-hSP7Cw-hSPAci-hSPqhE-hSQ2Tv-hSS3J5-hSS6qX-hSSW11-hSStSa-hSSxme-hSUm4D-hSUvEx-hSTVua-hSUuVY-hSUXor-hSUYKK-hSUFzL-hSUJRA-hSUvtT-hSUQ6x-i6yf7F-hLvLTH-i6yhSR-i6y1zy-hSQBCH-hSMK26-hSUxfj-hSQr3p-hSSMjJ-hSTM1e-hLwmmd-i59u8o-hSeXFZ-hSerdB-hSgimG-hSgFUe-hSgWMF-hSgXbM-hShxug-hShLv6-hShbx8-hSiHqg-hSiAwi-hSkt7A-hSmpiP-hSkMuM-hSqS5X-hSrbzK-hSsUKH-hSuHwE">Flickr/The British Library (No known copyright restrictions)</a></td></tr>
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Almost six in the morning and, as yet, there was no light. The grey mist enfolded Helena Blunden and the cold dampness seeped through to her bones. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders guarding against the chill. Hurrying along the dew-stained cobbled street, a sharp twinge of excitement plucked at her heart. She was on the last minute and she daren’t be late. Several dark shapes dashed along a few yards in front of her, heads bowed, resigned though reluctant to start their day’s work. Helena was eager to begin her day, for she hoped it would be her last. The poplars stood like giant sculptures brushing the pale silvery clouds, obscuring the soft light of the breaking dawn. She shivered as she approached the vast building set against the darkness of the rain-washed sky. Nothing could disguise the austere presence of Newbrook Mill standing four storeys high plus chimney, a gargantuan cathedral and spire dedicated to the production of Irish linen.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pWGWck7lrAUuczQ9_PrX8CueVfqlvMJ5lUcoyyGARaDSO1xFtkqqlMemds-_tU4DGFNJkkHqv4gv9DvALnBOghdNtdy1QgKj7BmNuJ7Gz7Ykgt8s9kTiBatx33nVWQGy0_RrYsGbf0Nx/s1600/1+Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pWGWck7lrAUuczQ9_PrX8CueVfqlvMJ5lUcoyyGARaDSO1xFtkqqlMemds-_tU4DGFNJkkHqv4gv9DvALnBOghdNtdy1QgKj7BmNuJ7Gz7Ykgt8s9kTiBatx33nVWQGy0_RrYsGbf0Nx/s320/1+Flickr.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/britishlibrary/11114624716/in/photolist-hWamGC-iddjLb-hWhL3t-i4Yebi-idcaMQ-hWbTeY-hWevBa-hSnK6f-hSgvEQ-id8foJ-hWdGNx-id3d9y-hWayrt-hW9uAz-i5kgcD-hWqkQz-id8va4-i54J9r-idc7Ki-i5exsj-hWdWeF-hWoUa8-hWgRuU-id1oAP-idc4Vi-hWiB2a-hWi5Am-hWcrwR-hWbW2u-hWgg9P-hWkHPN-hWnL6q-hW69NK-id5H8w-hWkdHP-hWbPws-hWcKmu-hWepnC-hWoGbS-i5hohh-id2KB3-hWeYbK-hWgDhZ-i4X7uA-i59bzC-i5m8Vd-i5gYRS-hWjGLp-hWdDWu-i51W1m">Flickr/The British Library (No known copyright restrictions)</a></td></tr>
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Helena entered the mill for what she hoped would be her final shift. Climbing the stone steps worn away by years of workers’ feet, she removed her shawl and was aware that her curly hair was springing back into shape. Today was Friday and she would finish in twelve hours’ time. She had played her part in producing double damask tablecloths for the great ship ‘Titanic’ and she would be working hard to finish a special order today. Helena needed to be away home as quickly as possible for she had tickets for a concert at the Grand Opera House that evening. Fly home, she would, as fast as her legs could carry her. There were other opportunities opening up for her now and she couldn’t wait to seize them. Tomorrow, she would visit Belfast for an audition. A musical impresario had heard a recording of her voice and if he liked her she would sing in the newly opened Dunmurry Theatre.<br />
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Thoughts of family conversations flooded Helena’s head. <br />
‘Ach, you’ll ne’er make it as a singer, girl. You’re livin’ in a dream world. Sure to God, ye’ll only get anywhere by a hard day’s graft.’<br />
‘Oh, Mammy! You know what this means to me. Why can’t y’ be happy for me like Dada is?’<br />
‘Cos I’ve got me head screwed on, that’s why!’<br />
‘Leave the girl alone, Mary,’ came her father’s reply. ‘Sure she’s as much chance as the next to make it. She’s a lovely voice and people are touched by her singing’. <br />
‘Old Mrs McLoughlin was weepin’ into her hanky the other day. Wept buckets she did and told everyone how much she’d enjoyed it.’ ‘You can’t invent that and it’s something Helena has without the asking.’<br />
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Helena held on to her dream and now something was about to happen that could change her life for ever. Now, as never before, she felt encouraged to live her dream and escape her life in the drudgery of the spinning room. <br />
She knew she was a diligent, popular worker and had worked in the mill for over a year. Every day she’d battled against the thundering noise of the machines and the heat and the smell. She often worked up to her ankles in water but as she would say,<br />
‘Sure to God, and you can get used to anything if you have to.’ <br />
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Despite its chilly beginnings, this mid-May day turned out to be very hot. The air in the spinning room smelt dank and stale as the temperature sweltered to its highest point. Two children and the woman working next to Helena had fainted and had to be carried out into the relative cool of the open air. Condensation dripped down the walls and onto the floors. Sweat glistened on Helena’s forehead as she tried to work dexterously at her machine. The heat hung heavily on all the workers, soaking their clothes and the hair on the back of their heads. <br />
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Helena worked on for the rest of the day. Suddenly, she became aware of the cleaning woman who was mopping her way around the spinning room. Kitty Malone was the opposite in character to Helena. Unkempt Kitty, as she was nicknamed by the mill workers, was always scruffy and untidy. She was deeply disaffected and envious of the fortunes of others and was certainly not known for her fine ways having been a drinker and a brawler in her youth. Helena knew only too well that she’d said many unkind things about her. She knew that she was jealous of her, mocking her talent and ambition whenever she had the chance. No-one took much notice of Kitty which fuelled her frustration. She’d listened often to Helena’s stories and was sick of hearing about her. She’d laughed at Helena, teasing her for the slight English accent she’d picked up which made her voice distinctive. <br />
Kitty had been moved around the mill many times as she’d caused disruption wherever she worked; her confrontational attitude had got her nowhere, yet she never learned from her mistakes. Her duties included mopping and cleaning the condensation from the floors and the stairs of the great mill. She needed the job but didn’t do it willingly, often quarrelling with fellow workers and complaining at the slightest opportunity.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://visualhunt.com/f/photo/14779495551/2cecbe0ac0/">Internet Archive Book Images via Visual hunt / No known copyright restrictions</a></td></tr>
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One of Kitty’s comments broke the flow of Helena’s thoughts as she neared the end of her shift.<br />
‘Why audiences should be captivated by her?’ Kitty would never know. ‘Sure, I could do just the same myself. She’s nothing special, that’s for sure.’ <br />
Within seconds, Helena was preoccupied with thoughts of the audition once again. She confidently hummed tunes in her head while she worked. She longed for the whistle to blow. To save a few minutes, she’d kept her shoes on, ready to leave the minute the whistle blew. Today, she was living every second ahead of itself; she just couldn’t wait for the day to end. <br />
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Helena watched absentmindedly as Kitty moved in her usual fashion from the spinning room floor onto the stairs and beyond. She knew that Kitty wasn’t proud of what she did but that she was compelled to do it for the bits of a wage it offered at the end of each week. She also knew about Kitty’s habit of complaining constantly and rebuking anyone who happened to walk on the stairs while she mopped. What Helena didn’t know was that, tonight, Kitty was particularly tired and bad-tempered. Having worked her way up from the ground floor of the mill she was now mopping all the stairs down to the bottom. She stooped over her mop and, not bothering to squeeze it properly, dragged it lazily across the top steps. Just a couple more flights to go and she’d be finished for the day. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I<a href="https://visualhunt.com/f/photo/14578619658/8e9324d586/">nternet Archive Book Images via VisualHunt / No known copyright restrictions</a></td></tr>
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As she was extra weary and ill-tempered, any slight disruption would cause her to react. At that moment, a young half-timer, Sean, who’d only just started a couple of days before, passed her by on the stairs. He walked over the spot she had just cleaned and she shrieked at him.<br />
‘Move!’ she yelled. <br />
At the second landing, Kitty stood several feet from her mop and bucket which lay abandoned where she’d worked. Taking him aside, she gripped his arm and warned him about the wet slippery stairs. Kitty wagged her finger at him, then shook him by the shoulders. <br />
The young lad pulled himself back against the wall and lowered his head in shame. <br />
‘I didn’t mean no harm,’ he stuttered nervously. <br />
‘No, you lot never do. But it’s me who has to go over it again - as if I haven’t got enough to do.’ <br />
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Just then, the whistle blew and Helena finished her shift. She grabbed her shawl and fled, avoiding other workers in her path. She had eaten very little and felt sick with nervous excitement and the heat and noise of the day. Hurrying down the first flight of stairs, she willed herself forward, her feet barely touching the steps. Her wet shoes clung loosely to her feet but she raced on. Soon she’d be home to her mother to tell her how excited she felt about going to the concert. She thought again about her trip to Belfast. <br />
‘I’ll do my very best and become famous and then I’ll buy them a house with a garden and everything and we’ll never want for anything ever again.’ <br />
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In the rush and excitement, Helena didn’t see the discarded mop. She tripped heavily and shot head first over the bucket, over the banister, crashing down the narrow stairwell to the ground floor far below. Her body clipped the second banister snapping her arm in two. This changed the direction of her fall by a few centimetres. <br />
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But there would be no mercy in this trajectory; nothing could save Helena from the fate awaiting her. Kitty was still speaking to Sean when she heard the terrible scream as Helena fell. She raced down the stairs and knelt by Helena’s limp body sprawled in a heap like a bundle of rags that had been left out for the tinkers. Shocked and stunned, she felt a terrible lump in her throat as she stooped closer to examine the rumpled body lying contorted on the stone floor. Helena’s bloodied skull had smashed into pieces; her voice silenced forever.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/britishlibrary/11077823076/in/photolist-hSPeEr-hSP7Cw-hSPAci-hSPqhE-hSQ2Tv-hSS3J5-hSS6qX-hSSW11-hSStSa-hSSxme-hSUm4D-hSUvEx-hSTVua-hSUuVY-hSUXor-hSUYKK-hSUFzL-hSUJRA-hSUvtT-hSUQ6x-i6yf7F-hLvLTH-i6yhSR-i6y1zy-hSQBCH-hSMK26-hSUxfj-hSQr3p-hSSMjJ-hSTM1e-hLwmmd-i59u8o-hSeXFZ-hSerdB-hSgimG-hSgFUe-hSgWMF-hSgXbM-hShxug-hShLv6-hShbx8-hSiHqg-hSiAwi-hSkt7A-hSmpiP-hSkMuM-hSqS5X-hSrbzK-hSsUKH-hSuHwE">Flickr/The British Library (No known copyright restrictions)</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Text © Martha Ashwell</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Image use as per attribution</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">~~~~~~~~~~~</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg29rrLgoaA7znOdyhGCSQr8ZKWiLy3GShzAaSUaJwGSZqZN4PwHsgFf4Vk_WjBDCjRUKtAI1rHLMlPv6eCdvZsWDEKkK40zgLECjBPz3E9T8jttRHBUa7d26rcdo_An8b6vOZPM0pfngeO/s1600/Martha+Ashwell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg29rrLgoaA7znOdyhGCSQr8ZKWiLy3GShzAaSUaJwGSZqZN4PwHsgFf4Vk_WjBDCjRUKtAI1rHLMlPv6eCdvZsWDEKkK40zgLECjBPz3E9T8jttRHBUa7d26rcdo_An8b6vOZPM0pfngeO/s1600/Martha+Ashwell.jpg" /></a></div>
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Martha Ashwell lives in Stockport and is a member of the Manchester Irish Writers. She loved writing as a child but only started writing seriously about four years ago. She has written poetry and prose which has been performed at The Irish World Heritage Centre in Manchester. Her main achievement to date is the publication of her personal memoir <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Celias-Secret-Journey-towards-Reconciliation-ebook/dp/B00Z3NHAO8/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1488997183&sr=1-1">‘Celia’s Secret: A Journey towards Reconciliation’</a>. Find out more by visiting her website at <a href="http://marthaashwell.co.uk/home/">http://marthaashwell.co.uk/home/</a><br />
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-28893879404705260752017-02-03T11:31:00.001-08:002017-03-08T10:41:31.249-08:00Working in the Linen Mills of Belfast: the life of Helena Blunden <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By Martha Ashwell</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOqiOaRSgKJwgEfwEyij4RXc5Pl3_mrghzDB_3AcjLupezzycnZmNqnBtUs6s1tfnN0eAL95yHawJKxgngYRVzkyhjdMuC4_orlfze4pcsJKpNehWhZy86cf9pIvObAeS17X51nD7JqUW3/s1600/4+The_old_Gilford_Linen_Mill_-_geograph.org.uk_-_614135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOqiOaRSgKJwgEfwEyij4RXc5Pl3_mrghzDB_3AcjLupezzycnZmNqnBtUs6s1tfnN0eAL95yHawJKxgngYRVzkyhjdMuC4_orlfze4pcsJKpNehWhZy86cf9pIvObAeS17X51nD7JqUW3/s320/4+The_old_Gilford_Linen_Mill_-_geograph.org.uk_-_614135.jpg" title="P Flannagan [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old Gilford Linen Mill: P Flannagan/<br />
[CC BY-SA 2.0], via Wikimedia Commons</td></tr>
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In the mid 19th and early 20th centuries, linen was the staple industry in the north of Ireland. Production of linen yarn and cloth took place in many parts of the country but mechanized industrialisation progressed most rapidly in Belfast where the industry was concentrated. The city had many linen mills and employed mostly women, with men taking the roles of supervisors and managers. A typical working week in a mill could be up to sixty hours, with the working day starting at 6.00 am and finishing at 6.00 pm, with one hour for lunch. Children as young as eight were employed, most of whom worked under the ‘half-time’ system; a half day in the mill and a half day at school. In 1901, the legal starting age was raised to thirteen and by 1907 there were over three thousand half-timers in Belfast, earning about 3s 6d a week.<br />
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Most mills were four or five storeys high. Working conditions were harsh and the noise from machinery was deafening. Heat, steam and oil fumes, combined with the fine dust from the linen fibres, made it a dangerous place to work. The Millies, the young girls and women employed in the mill, became skilled lip readers in order to communicate over the noise.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbT2k2CynBK03_9SmMEGXoTY7vqv_sxuRi33uZn4cmTSy2J3hv1Hx0tnZzPHMUbnMUcCNwCvl8p9tPBH2GLwYdXUPjHBi8K4zLOnsofvTbEB_myCBDUAXRmvshM9J6tc9JvFwC3j7CJNMp/s1600/2+Employees_at_Wear_Mill%252C_c.1907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbT2k2CynBK03_9SmMEGXoTY7vqv_sxuRi33uZn4cmTSy2J3hv1Hx0tnZzPHMUbnMUcCNwCvl8p9tPBH2GLwYdXUPjHBi8K4zLOnsofvTbEB_myCBDUAXRmvshM9J6tc9JvFwC3j7CJNMp/s320/2+Employees_at_Wear_Mill%252C_c.1907.jpg" title="See page for author [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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Stockport Image Archive,</div>
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Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons</div>
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The linen industry went into decline after the Second World War and by the mid-1960s one third of Northern Ireland’s mills had closed. Today, a number of Belfast’s towering mill buildings have been converted to serve the local community and small businesses. Despite the hard lives of the mill workers, there remains a certain nostalgia and many people remember the Belfast Millies walking arm in arm singing their mill songs.<br />
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In 1912, numerous operatives worked in these conditions and extra hours if an important order needed to be completed. At the close of each shift, the workers would pour out of the mill, their damp clothes sticking to them, weighing heavily on their weary bodies. Despite the conditions, there was great camaraderie and many had a spring in their step and were happy to be outside breathing fresh cool air once more. Now they could begin to live their other life outside the drudgery of the mill.<br />
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Helena Blunden was one such Millie and loved to talk with the other women. Every day they would sing at their machines and mouth across making funny comments to one another. Somehow, they kept each other going through the hard work and the long, tedious days. The work was exhausting and relentless but, at sixteen, youth was on Helena’s side and she knew that this was not her destiny. She had told her fellow millworkers that she was born in Ireland but brought up in England since the age of five. When her family returned to Ireland in 1911 to seek work they lived in a small terraced house close to the mill. Her father would have preferred to live in Dublin, him being a Home Rule man, but they had relatives in Belfast who had found work for them in the mill so that’s where they settled. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzwm09V3bf00zjwGciDjLuQeG4GVeyjIGW-Ffo0p_-ybyaB8t0fLsKM3SQ2vxXXVzM11JAK2vUK89wH0kJ0BOigluP5WIoyjix4NqCYCpfgv9k5tIFUwL7VDDdwc4iGVvozrd49U2EmVpK/s1600/3+14801623113_60bec847ab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzwm09V3bf00zjwGciDjLuQeG4GVeyjIGW-Ffo0p_-ybyaB8t0fLsKM3SQ2vxXXVzM11JAK2vUK89wH0kJ0BOigluP5WIoyjix4NqCYCpfgv9k5tIFUwL7VDDdwc4iGVvozrd49U2EmVpK/s320/3+14801623113_60bec847ab.jpg" title="Photo credit: Internet Archive Book Images via Visual hunt / No known copyright restrictions" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo credit: Internet Archive Book Images via Visual hunt / <br />
No known copyright restrictions</td></tr>
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Helena was a dreamy idealist; an outgoing young woman, with a pretty face and a friendly smile who loved the romanticism of poetry and the clever wit of the Irish playwrights. She’d told her mill friends of the raucous songs of the London music hall, which her mother had played for them on the old piano, but her real love was for classical composition like ‘Pie Jesu’ and her beloved Irish ballads. Helena loved to tell the story of her great uncle who had been a wandering minstrel in Kilkenny and fond of the dance; a talent that she had inherited herself. But her passion was singing; it seemed like it was in her blood. She was highly praised by those who heard her and that gave her the confidence to believe that one day she would earn her living by singing.<br />
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But such golden promise was to be cruelly cut short, for Helena died in tragic circumstances at a young age. I have written a fictional short story about it as another post on this blog and you can find it <b><i><a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2017/03/the-death-of-helena-blunden-short-story.html">here</a></i></b>. Great sadness followed Helena’s death. The tragic loss of potential for what she could have become was felt deeply by her friends in the mill and by her devoted family. They grieved for the beautiful girl and for the great talent that had died with her. <br />
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Many years have passed and the linen industry has all but died too in Northern Ireland. A visit to the mill shows that little has changed since Helena’s day. The glass still rattles eerily in the window frames when the wind blows. The lift gate howls like a banshee when it opens onto a floor. The reminders of the past are everywhere. The lift, staircases and windows which were installed in 1900 have never been altered.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoSsuREpQWvKts9dS9kMhggTs_Z4CBf_2pFNhpwKZwiZUQflMBp-2CrzvfCkiIRA_Z95WeqUOuILo_eVpDfoInTgPq4Szf2e7LJIk8drvV6otkLDgXDMVSc8loTR2RlW8ZWEsaHSn454Lc/s1600/1+The_Old_Gilford_Mill_-_geograph.org.uk_-_517473.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoSsuREpQWvKts9dS9kMhggTs_Z4CBf_2pFNhpwKZwiZUQflMBp-2CrzvfCkiIRA_Z95WeqUOuILo_eVpDfoInTgPq4Szf2e7LJIk8drvV6otkLDgXDMVSc8loTR2RlW8ZWEsaHSn454Lc/s320/1+The_Old_Gilford_Mill_-_geograph.org.uk_-_517473.jpg" title="HENRY CLARK [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Old Gilford Mill Gone but not forgotten: <br />
HENRY CLARK [CC BY-SA 2.0], via Wikimedia Commons</td></tr>
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Yet, the workers now based at the old mill where Helena worked are haunted by unexplained encounters. Strange eerie sightings – voices, lights and sounds. All have been reported and continue to be monitored. Does Helena’s spirit still haunt the mill where she died? Many say her ghost still walks the mill. Doors have reportedly opened and closed without reason. Lights have been seen flickering and unexplained noises and movements noted.<br />
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It had been Helena’s intention to leave the linen mill forever and establish herself as a singer. We’ll never know whether she would have succeeded or whether she was destined to remain in the mill for many years to come. The vast spinning room where Helena worked is now a book warehouse but it’s rarely used as staff are reluctant to spend too much time there. <br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Text © Martha Ashwell</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Image use as per attribution</span><br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju1-RP6hxlDi4vploKSeB-IV5gQIMPPo_cJ91zKm7zMa0VGfyASuA5VbAbP1eoubL8QnYV81fUM2xVJwnLVT27s-PnNUBJ9gqtAHlIQyJLU38uiIgvODZ7id3eyLWL2A6WZFYpPBxJsT18/s1600/Martha+Ashwell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju1-RP6hxlDi4vploKSeB-IV5gQIMPPo_cJ91zKm7zMa0VGfyASuA5VbAbP1eoubL8QnYV81fUM2xVJwnLVT27s-PnNUBJ9gqtAHlIQyJLU38uiIgvODZ7id3eyLWL2A6WZFYpPBxJsT18/s1600/Martha+Ashwell.jpg" /></a></div>
Martha Ashwell lives in Stockport and is a member of the Manchester Irish Writers. She loved writing as a child but only started writing seriously about four years ago. She has written poetry and prose which has been performed at The Irish World Heritage Centre in Manchester. Her main achievement to date is the publication of her personal memoir <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Celias-Secret-Journey-towards-Reconciliation/dp/1326234439/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1486149825&sr=1-1&keywords=celia%27s+secret">‘Celia’s Secret: A Journey towards Reconciliation’</a>. Find out more by visiting her website at <a href="http://marthaashwell.co.uk/home/">http://marthaashwell.co.uk/home/</a><br />
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-32512424412340270992017-01-23T10:30:00.000-08:002017-01-23T10:30:07.563-08:00Constance Markievicz: The Revolutionary Countess<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By Marion Riley</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWif0IYer8srIgF7YWI_YfJOlmof5S9SOq9oU-hiGzEiopBwbCivd8kHl6K4P4NTL-y70AJ-U2D9RQJ18nPq6CEmf4OkGqoSew_MAkqeET2B5gutTCwZbIqEUg1iHrpgxe7CVHhaGuDlej/s1600/1+Constance_Markiewicz_by_John_Butler_Yeats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWif0IYer8srIgF7YWI_YfJOlmof5S9SOq9oU-hiGzEiopBwbCivd8kHl6K4P4NTL-y70AJ-U2D9RQJ18nPq6CEmf4OkGqoSew_MAkqeET2B5gutTCwZbIqEUg1iHrpgxe7CVHhaGuDlej/s400/1+Constance_Markiewicz_by_John_Butler_Yeats.jpg" title="John Butler Yeats [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="278" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Countess Markievicz by John Butler Yeats <br />
[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons</td></tr>
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Countess Markievicz was born Constance Gore-Booth in 1868 in London to Sir Henry Gore-Booth, the famous arctic explorer. As an Anglo-Irish landlord, her father was not typical of his type and administered his lands with a degree of compassion for the peasantry who farmed it. He is reported to have provided famine relief in 1879 at his estate in Sligo, This act of compassion undoubtedly inspired humanity and concern for the poor in his daughter. Living in Sligo, the family were friends with the family of W.B. Yeats, the poet.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN47iSqcwsCexy5nexdDL-xY7AITowvtE3ZHn2QE_GilD26mTkEHF4P07NxkainjzHyPpNbIlVLsu9L5WFN6FJCjUfOSyRr_A2hZ1N_Wpx-VRJOyKNokhbcjJrChW5qNxsqHYvApHL7k7N/s1600/2+Lissadell_House_810953_22ff3265.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN47iSqcwsCexy5nexdDL-xY7AITowvtE3ZHn2QE_GilD26mTkEHF4P07NxkainjzHyPpNbIlVLsu9L5WFN6FJCjUfOSyRr_A2hZ1N_Wpx-VRJOyKNokhbcjJrChW5qNxsqHYvApHL7k7N/s320/2+Lissadell_House_810953_22ff3265.jpg" title="Kay Atherton [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lissadell House, Ballinful, Co. Sligo- Constance's childhood home.<br />
Photo: Kay Atherton [CC BY-SA 2.0], via Wikimedia Commons</td></tr>
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Constance studied painting in London in 1893 where she became involved in the issue of suffrage for women, joining the 'National Union of Women's Suffrage Societies'. She continued her artistic studies in Paris in 1898 where she met Count Markievicz, who was a Ukrainian aristocrat of Polish origin. They wed in 1901 and returned to Sligo where their daughter Maeve was born. They settled in Dublin in 1903 where the Countess co-founded the 'United Artists Club' which was a cultural and artistic organisation. In 1908 she joined Sinn Fein. She continued to participate in the Suffragette movement in England and by standing for election she helped to defeat Winston Churchill in a 1908 Manchester by-election. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjnOu_eBr6C5lIpBV4eIDqgWYLQ9I9UAVhTIE14m3MuXsi3LeM4SOO7tw3l2ZKjh6w05nizG0j-IUA_VH0TAgOTbUeeJsxqIZqb3ef_MrAjxeAoZ2iI8U_0dYpP9f503itB1tK4iM-N6VV/s1600/3+Open_Christmas_letter_from_the_Suffragettes_of_Manchester_%252811350682363%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjnOu_eBr6C5lIpBV4eIDqgWYLQ9I9UAVhTIE14m3MuXsi3LeM4SOO7tw3l2ZKjh6w05nizG0j-IUA_VH0TAgOTbUeeJsxqIZqb3ef_MrAjxeAoZ2iI8U_0dYpP9f503itB1tK4iM-N6VV/s320/3+Open_Christmas_letter_from_the_Suffragettes_of_Manchester_%252811350682363%2529.jpg" title="By Manchester Archives+ from Manchester, United Kingdom [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Open Christmas letter from the Suffragettes of Manchester.<br />
Eva Gore-Booth, Constance's sister, is listed on there.<br />
Image: Manchester Archives+ from Manchester, United Kingdom <br />
[CC BY-SA 2.0], via Wikimedia Commons</td></tr>
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In 1909 she established the radical 'Fianna Eireann' which was aimed at instructing a youth army in the use of firearms. She was jailed by the British authorities in 1913 after speaking at an IRB rally to protest the visit of George V to Dublin. She also joined the Irish Citizen Army (ICA) established by James Connolly.<br />
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As a Lieutenant in the ICA the Countess participated in the Easter Rising of 1916 where she was second-in-command at the fight on St. Stephens Green. Initially the rebels dug trenches in the green but soon retreated from this position once they became vulnerable to snipers positioned on the high buildings around the enclosed green. Under the command of Michael Mallin they occupied the Royal College of Surgeons, rebelling for a total of 6 days.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sq4YQCd5xlo6yr0tbFzfHtHaxWc1u1Lqf3CuiFbmr0cJsMKx-QCEWpzNOJCiodgGzyk2GQbcePT-PQTS_1laC2FyJXOw6uqjunnH4Cmok5alh5HJGZ3nd3Ux5WQmNG3ExhxBli4kcYo_/s1600/4+Countess_Markievicz+w+gun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sq4YQCd5xlo6yr0tbFzfHtHaxWc1u1Lqf3CuiFbmr0cJsMKx-QCEWpzNOJCiodgGzyk2GQbcePT-PQTS_1laC2FyJXOw6uqjunnH4Cmok5alh5HJGZ3nd3Ux5WQmNG3ExhxBli4kcYo_/s320/4+Countess_Markievicz+w+gun.jpg" title="By National Library of Ireland on The Commons (Flickr: Countess Markievicz) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="235" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Studio portrait c.1915 of Countess Constance Markievicz (née Gore-Booth) <br />
in uniform with a gun.<br />
Photo: National Library of Ireland on The Commons (Flickr: Countess Markievicz) <br />
[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons</td></tr>
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They surrendered only when they received a copy of Padraig Pearse's surrender order. The Countess was jailed in Kilmainham and sentenced to death but her sentence was commuted on grounds of her gender. She was released from prison in 1917 by which time the tide of support had turned in favour of the rebels and the path to independence was set.<br />
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In 1918 she was again jailed for her anti-conscription campaigning but upon release was elected to the English parliament, refusing to take her seat. She was the first woman to be elected to the House of Commons. She was a member of the first 'Dáil' (Irish Parliament) in 1919 and became the first Irish (and indeed European) Cabinet Minister, serving as Minister for Labour from 1919 to 1922.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5yYQCp3qG-RV_qA3UJ7_hf9KrSxqH0pB5iUPJ28TwW_VuzZgS1yCKfLmRVxWrEb-wGK6YXj3PMwpq620DBjoV0wB8psNv9ET_Vj8N3WzJyYdOFOXYUDlG4vS6DVGbKLg3GcZJe59_nstj/s1600/Clare_el5+ections%252C_victory_procession_led_by_pipers%252C_Countess_Markievicz_in_white_coat_%25285551929518%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5yYQCp3qG-RV_qA3UJ7_hf9KrSxqH0pB5iUPJ28TwW_VuzZgS1yCKfLmRVxWrEb-wGK6YXj3PMwpq620DBjoV0wB8psNv9ET_Vj8N3WzJyYdOFOXYUDlG4vS6DVGbKLg3GcZJe59_nstj/s320/Clare_el5+ections%252C_victory_procession_led_by_pipers%252C_Countess_Markievicz_in_white_coat_%25285551929518%2529.jpg" title="By National Library of Ireland on The Commons [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clare elections, victory procession led by pipers, with Countess Markievicz in white coat.<br />
Photo: National Library of Ireland on The Commons [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons</td></tr>
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She joined DeValera in opposition to the Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1922 which partitioned the country and fought in Dublin in the ensuing civil war. She was again imprisoned but this time by her former comrades-in-arms. Upon her release, she became a founder member of Fianna Fail and was elected to the fifth Dáil in 1927. DeValera had by this time changed tactics and intended to participate in the parliament. The Countess however, never got her chance when, at the age of 59, she died of tuberculosis (or possibly appendicitis) in July of 1927. She likely caught the disease while working in the Dublin slums. Her husband and family were by her side.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_J0nuFPWJe2IfOB4WdtrmdIwcSSdSl3sGahSQIHHesj55FL3jql0fcF_MhR4KchJfrIiDM_o_ACcVNkWJIDWivG2x1R96RCoWit7Ui_lGr0Mr9yaIwQJGuntGS97Ur4iur-kB9rDozbW/s1600/6+Glasnevin_Cemetery%252C_officially_known_as_Prospect_Cemetery_%25284164696819%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_J0nuFPWJe2IfOB4WdtrmdIwcSSdSl3sGahSQIHHesj55FL3jql0fcF_MhR4KchJfrIiDM_o_ACcVNkWJIDWivG2x1R96RCoWit7Ui_lGr0Mr9yaIwQJGuntGS97Ur4iur-kB9rDozbW/s320/6+Glasnevin_Cemetery%252C_officially_known_as_Prospect_Cemetery_%25284164696819%2529.jpg" title="By William Murphy from Dublin, Ireland [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glasnevin Cemetery<br />
Photo: William Murphy from Dublin, Ireland [CC BY-SA 2.0], via Wikimedia Commons</td></tr>
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She was buried in Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin, the final resting place of so many Irish patriots with a farewell crowd of 300,000 in attendance.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Text: © Marion Riley</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbeCMnXSrqRJ_N0QjhfUBmQpxw7cgt0H4QHyQD9Qt43WmYf_1VEHw1wSKDibSiRK6esdhf0uafuw6cNN-n5e-TEKkCbCF3a1RNVWYHez8pkerv6cR4iwR3Ow7jL3LC_zofW4OdmlFHVZjv/s1600/Marion+Riley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbeCMnXSrqRJ_N0QjhfUBmQpxw7cgt0H4QHyQD9Qt43WmYf_1VEHw1wSKDibSiRK6esdhf0uafuw6cNN-n5e-TEKkCbCF3a1RNVWYHez8pkerv6cR4iwR3Ow7jL3LC_zofW4OdmlFHVZjv/s200/Marion+Riley.jpg" width="194" /></a></div>
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Marion Riley was born in Limerick city and emigrated as a teenager to Manchester. She has worked in Sardinia, Spain, Switzerland and France. A winner and runner up of Irelands Own writing competitions, the magazine has published many of her stories and articles. Her monologues have been performed at the Library Theatre and the Royal Exchange and her poems and memoirs have been published in various anthologies such as Write North West. </div>
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Two of her short story Films 'Curls of the Past' and 'Letting Go' are on the BBC website Telling Lives. She has also edited and published her late mother's memoirs' From Kerry Child to Limerick Lady.' Marion now lives in Sussex, close to daughter where there is space and peace for quiet reflection on life's transience.</div>
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Marion wrote a monologue 'I Did What Was Right & I Stand By It' based on Countess Markievicz's life for MIW's commemorative event, '1916: The Risen Word'. 1916TRW 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.</div>
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-71287284908782867202017-01-17T10:01:00.001-08:002017-01-17T10:01:15.392-08:00The History Man: Short Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By E.M. Powell</b><br />
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It's lovely to be able to publish our first post of 2017 with some great news. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ManchesterIrishWriters/">Manchester Irish Writers</a> member Annette Sills was one of the <a href="http://www.booksirelandmagazine.com/">Books Ireland Magazine's</a> 2016 Short Story Competition Winners. She took joint third place with her story 'The History Man.'<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBPF7wALNp5wetx3F8hLYn8io4LMxD5PhJBDGJvSew33nlYXpV40flGgGBgCkL9FCaDJ9loxKfb9EK0IPiuQXXngpym3EWnWrUrmdhFwHutnIilAyIvupQrtDJ45m_sAGX2wDIokewdIhq/s1600/Books+Ireland+Logo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBPF7wALNp5wetx3F8hLYn8io4LMxD5PhJBDGJvSew33nlYXpV40flGgGBgCkL9FCaDJ9loxKfb9EK0IPiuQXXngpym3EWnWrUrmdhFwHutnIilAyIvupQrtDJ45m_sAGX2wDIokewdIhq/s320/Books+Ireland+Logo.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Annette says:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>I wrote the story as part of a project with Manchester Irish Writers about the Irish who fought in the battle of the Somme. I did actually have an Irish uncle who used us in Wigan to visit when I was a child. He had fought in World War II and was always very dapper but the story is essentially a work of fiction. I was delighted to be one of the prize winners and hope to attend the Books Ireland prize winning ceremony in Dublin in April.</i></blockquote>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo via Luis Llerena via VisualHunt.com</td></tr>
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Here's the link to Books Ireland Magazine's website so you can read <a href="http://www.booksirelandmagazine.com/history-man-annette-sills/">'The History Man'</a> for yourself. Congratulations, Annette!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpkEGtSURRLNgUJydF0MXmsDqWxSlFy-cUyrzsfnOLES27CjfA7NVHvIDaMEmOaTBtIh211k5a6c2IIbKp7NaUDheZ39RaXbEJxisMJhTi1u8njjqiXoAm4j8KwqCTiakuXXetd-zgMOp-/s1600/Annette+Sills.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpkEGtSURRLNgUJydF0MXmsDqWxSlFy-cUyrzsfnOLES27CjfA7NVHvIDaMEmOaTBtIh211k5a6c2IIbKp7NaUDheZ39RaXbEJxisMJhTi1u8njjqiXoAm4j8KwqCTiakuXXetd-zgMOp-/s200/Annette+Sills.jpg" width="170" /></a></div>
Annette Sills was born in Wigan, Lancashire to parents from Co. Mayo, Ireland. Her short stories have been longlisted and shortlisted in a number of competitions including the Fish Short Story Prize and the Telegraph Short Story Club and her first novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Relative-Harmony-Julie-OHagan/dp/1781331227/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1484675651&sr=1-1&keywords=annette+sills"><i>The Relative Harmony of Julie O'Hagan</i> </a>was awarded a publishing contract with Rethink Press after it was shortlisted in their New Novels Competition 2014. She lives in Chorlton, Manchester with her family.</div>
E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-31449935847157994952016-11-14T07:54:00.000-08:002016-11-14T07:58:56.170-08:00Allies After All: Guest Post by Dianne Ascroft<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>MIW are pleased to welcome a guest to our blog today. Dianne Ascroft is a member of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Fermanagh-Writers-182291718478896/?fref=ts">Fermanagh Writers</a> in Northern Ireland and writes WWII historical fiction. Her latest publication is as part of a short story collection, </i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Pearl-Harbor-More-Stories-December-ebook/dp/B01M4L8HGT/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1479135696&sr=1-1&keywords=pearl+harbor+and+more">Pearl Harbor and More</a><i>, which has been released by an international group of writers to mark the 75th anniversary of the battle of Pearl Harbour. Dianne’s story, </i>Allies After All<i>, is set in County Fermanagh during December 1941. In this post, she gives us an insight into the history of NI during the war and shares an excerpt from her story. </i><br />
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<b>ALLIES AFTER ALL</b></div>
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<b>By Dianne Ascroft</b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fermanagah Fields</td></tr>
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As part of the United Kingdom, Northern Ireland had already been at war for more than two years when my story opens. But, it was the same, yet a different, war than the rest of the United Kingdom was waging. Due to the political and religious tensions in the province, some aspects of the province’s experience of the war differed greatly from the rest of the United Kingdom. They faced rationing, the fear of invasion by Axis troops and many saw their loved ones go off to fight.<br />
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But conscription was never introduced so those who joined the armed forces did so voluntarily. This meant that more men of military service age remained at home than in other parts of the UK. But what the province didn’t supply in manpower, they made up for with industrial output. Northern Ireland’s industries supplied ships, aircraft, munitions and cloth for the armed forces.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lough Erne, Co Fermanagh. <br />
Flying-boat bases were located near here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
County Fermanagh, in the west of the province, did its part for the war effort with increased crop yields and milk production for consumption locally and across the Irish Sea in England. Bordering neutral Ireland, the county was in a unique position. The hardships of rationing were offset by a thriving cross border smuggling trade between the two countries. Yet, at the same time, the Unionists in Fermanagh constantly worried about the proximity of the border, fearing that the IRA would sneak across it to attack the local targets, sabotage military operations in the county and aide Axis forces to infiltrate the province.<br />
<br />
Local defence throughout Northern Ireland was overseen by the police rather than the military, in order to employ their local knowledge to prevent anyone with suspected terrorist connections from being accepted into the organisation. Thus, the Local Defence Force, which later became the Ulster Home Guard, was a branch of the police force.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFgyj1rESkikGzKYcVqnxNbJTwdsLC800da7TT0Ga4XwOtVP3-FT90rOaZpF8yIVvr4wQKzDfzUEc18-XxASo3itRST8VVvH1Vej1zSEo0BjK9PQ7Wvl8ZqI9wan1SojuhH01IhVdxZmyS/s1600/3+Farm+distance.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFgyj1rESkikGzKYcVqnxNbJTwdsLC800da7TT0Ga4XwOtVP3-FT90rOaZpF8yIVvr4wQKzDfzUEc18-XxASo3itRST8VVvH1Vej1zSEo0BjK9PQ7Wvl8ZqI9wan1SojuhH01IhVdxZmyS/s320/3+Farm+distance.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fermanagh Farmland</td></tr>
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<br />
Northern Ireland was also a staging platform for the Allied troops that arrived in the United Kingdom to prepare for the invasion of occupied Europe. This included the Americans. Although America was neutral until the attack on Pearl Harbor pushed them into the war, they had already been in Northern Ireland for months, secretly preparing for their entry into the war. The construction of military installations by American civilian contractors, in various places in the United Kingdom, including<br />
County Fermanagh, was already well underway by December 1941. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>When my story opens, an American mechanic, Art Miller, working for a civilian company on the construction of ammunition storage dump facilities, meets Robbie Hetherington, a member of the Local Defence Force in County Fermanagh with interesting results. Here’s the excerpt from my story:</i><br />
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<div>
Art yanked the van’s door open. Despite the crazy angle the vehicle was sitting at, in one quick movement he swung himself out of the driver’s seat onto the bumpy, badly surfaced road. Huh, you’d hardly call it a road; it wasn’t much wider than a sidewalk back home. Nothing like the smooth, straight Route 62 that passed through his hometown in New York State. The highway’s surface might crack in the summer heat, but there sure weren’t any craters in it. This was only fit for donkeys and carts. Guess that was about right around here.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Art ran his hand across the back of his neck and up into his sandy crew cut as he stared at the vehicle. His old man had never let them grow their hair when they were kids, and he still had the same haircut he’d had in grade school. Not that he had a beef with that. He had the hair; now he just needed the uniform. He was ready to answer Uncle Sam’s call. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, if he ever got this truck outta the hole he would be. What he could sure use right now would be Popeye to come along and lift that tin can outta there. He wasn’t far outside Ardess village but he hadn’t seen anyone around when he drove through it. The place looked like a ghost town. It was more than a mile back to Kiltierney camp. If he started walking, with any luck, a truck headed for the camp would pass him and he could hitch a ride. He’d get someone to come back and tow him out.</div>
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<div>
As he turned and started walking away from the vehicle, a young man around his own age wearing a heavy khaki overcoat and field service cap cycled toward him on a sturdy black bicycle.</div>
<div>
“Hiya, buddy,” Art said to the cyclist when he stopped beside him. </div>
<div>
“Are you abandoning that vehicle in the middle of the road?” the khaki-uniformed man sputtered.</div>
<div>
“Well, it ain’t goin’ nowhere. It’s stuck in a hole.”</div>
<div>
“You can’t leave it there. It might fall into the wrong hands.”</div>
<div>
“Is that so? I don’t see anyone around here. Do you?” Art ran his hand through his hair as he stared at the man. Who is this smart aleck? he thought. </div>
<div>
“See here, you certainly can’t leave it there. Spies or terrorists could sneak across the border from Ireland and have it quicker than a fox slips into a henhouse.”</div>
<div>
Art raised one eyebrow and snorted. “Yeah? And how do I know you ain’t a Jerry soldier? Who are you, anyway, pal?”</div>
<div>
“I’m a Local Defence Volunteer. Let’s see your ID.” </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Could this day get any worse? Art really didn’t feel like dealing with this smart aleck right now. He had had it with being pushed around. “Is that a wing of the Boy Scouts?”</div>
<div>
Art thought his interrogator looked sore about the wisecrack, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to get that truck out of the hole and get back to camp to finish the repair he’d been working on. If he couldn’t convince the boss to send him home, then he would do his darndest to get this construction project finished lickity-split so he could get outta here. </div>
<div>
The uniformed man regarded him stiffly. “It’s the Ulster Special Constabulary.” </div>
<div>
“You’re a copper, then?” </div>
<div>
“No, Local Defence. Like the Home Guard in England.”</div>
<div>
“Oh yeah, I’ve heard of them – aren’t they old guys, soldiers that are over the hill? Marching around with broomsticks.”</div>
<div>
“Not in Northern Ireland. We’re part of the police force. And we’re issued Lee–Enfield rifles.”</div>
<div>
Art shook his head. The guy looked pretty young to be in some broomstick brigade instead of the army, but what did he care? It was none of his beeswax. Getting this truck out of the hole was. Say, maybe this smart aleck could help him.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">All Text and Images © Dianne Ascroft</span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Zt-T2anI9is48bj5z3rTyHEj5_7z974VgNkeL7UwDojowoz-0CNj7DioR039t2Uf-X37ho0XAv8J2sRbH2lEh0EUQhktroRS5hh9GEudsXSqWSpoUbWX3NKDutBA0yVkDIwx4Tn9i150/s1600/Yankee+Years+ebook+cover+Updated.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Zt-T2anI9is48bj5z3rTyHEj5_7z974VgNkeL7UwDojowoz-0CNj7DioR039t2Uf-X37ho0XAv8J2sRbH2lEh0EUQhktroRS5hh9GEudsXSqWSpoUbWX3NKDutBA0yVkDIwx4Tn9i150/s200/Yankee+Years+ebook+cover+Updated.jpg" width="133" /></a>Dianne Ascroft is a Canadian writer living in Northern Ireland. She writes historical and contemporary fiction, often with an Irish connection. Her series <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Yankee-Years-Boxset-Books-1-3-ebook/dp/B01KG84NZ8/">The Yankee Years</a></i> is a collection of Short Reads and novels set in World War II–era Northern Ireland. Her other writing includes a ghost tale inspired by the famous Coonian ghost, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dianne-Ascroft/e/B002BOCBKA/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1479137323&sr=1-2-ent">An Unbidden Visitor</a></i>; a short story collection, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dianne-Ascroft/e/B002BOCBKA/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1479137323&sr=1-2-ent">Dancing Shadows, Tramping Hooves</a></i>, and an historical novel, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dianne-Ascroft/e/B002BOCBKA/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1479137323&sr=1-2-ent">Hitler and Mars Bars</a></i>. She is lives on a farm near Enniskillen, County Fermanagh and is a member of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Fermanagh-Writers-182291718478896/?fref=ts">Fermanagh Writers</a>, <a href="http://www.writersabroad.com/">Writers Abroad</a>, the <a href="https://historicalnovelsociety.org/">Historical Novel Society</a> and the <a href="https://www.allianceindependentauthors.org/">Alliance of Independent Authors</a>. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
To purchase <i>Pearl Harbor and More</i>, click <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Pearl-Harbor-More-Stories-December-ebook/dp/B01M4L8HGT/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1479138583&sr=1-1">here</a>. </div>
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Online Dianne lurks at: <a href="http://www.dianneascroft.com/">www.dianneascroft.com</a></div>
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Goodreads: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1357575.Dianne_Ascroft">https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1357575.Dianne_Ascroft</a></div>
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-496384986365493902016-11-02T08:00:00.000-07:002016-11-02T08:00:37.474-07:00Independence Indifference: Thoughts on the Easter Rising<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>By Des Farry</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQEoYCtYvTGwrs7E4v1uk67Kg5PKILE7-qTcqI5vy8yguC5beGK9scG8brsudJFhcgRlqkj3J88ABrjcz_QBx7kXdi4ejSy0cWScgCerdSiIC6SalUKfHxONUZE-jkYQS16szvoiznOQjo/s1600/2014-04-21+16.47.00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQEoYCtYvTGwrs7E4v1uk67Kg5PKILE7-qTcqI5vy8yguC5beGK9scG8brsudJFhcgRlqkj3J88ABrjcz_QBx7kXdi4ejSy0cWScgCerdSiIC6SalUKfHxONUZE-jkYQS16szvoiznOQjo/s320/2014-04-21+16.47.00.jpg" title="© Des Farry" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Des Farry</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
On looking back at my school days, if I was asked the question ‘What did the Easter Rising mean to you?' the answer has to be not a lot or complete indifference as something which happened in Dublin and had nothing to do with us.<br />
<br />
Outside of school the only influences and tenuous links with the Rising were an old man who tried unsuccessfully to sell copies of <i>The United Irishman</i> or <i>Inniu</i> (‘Today’, an Irish language paper) outside Church after Sunday Mass, a background low level IRA Border campaign conducted by outsiders with little local input which had largely petered out and occasional home visits from people selling leather goods and Celtic Crosses made by internees at Crumlin Road Prison to raise funds.<br />
<br />
Our only contact with the actual events of the Easter Rising was when the film <i>Mise Eire</i> with music composed by Seán Ó Riada was released. We were all marched down to the County Cinema en masse to see it. It was followed by a couple of Gael Linn shorts.<br />
<br />
The first was called <i>Peil</i> starring Christy Ring the Cork hurler demonstrating Hurling skills with commentary in Irish and greeted in silence. Nobody had any interest at all in Hurling and not a great deal in Irish either.<br />
<br />
The second was Gaelic Greats which finally produced emotion, when Sean Purcell, the Galway footballer appeared on screen to be greeted with a loud chorus of boos. He was infamous in Tyrone for a very heavy unpunished tackle on County goalkeeper and local man Thaddy Turbitt. Gaelic Greats??? With no mention of Tyrone maestro Iggy Jones?? Ridiculous!!<br />
<br />
Omagh was football country, soccer on Saturday night at The Showgrounds, Gaelic on Sunday at St. Enda’s. <br />
<br />
So what did I take from the film session? It has to be the magnificent music from <i>Mise Eire</i> which has never been bettered.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeA-a9vikky9eByShBNmEAxx64slkNPVH0osG5n2qBPVLgSbTDvE_dUPpJIxgAgLEAVKVbIiQAkEfQJvGKe9PJOEcDC4hAADWZcDQvt_lomolrPWqQ2wX1o9wamErIfxmBsE9CQZ4wajD9/s1600/501px-Se%25C3%25A1n_%25C3%2593_Riada_Sculpture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeA-a9vikky9eByShBNmEAxx64slkNPVH0osG5n2qBPVLgSbTDvE_dUPpJIxgAgLEAVKVbIiQAkEfQJvGKe9PJOEcDC4hAADWZcDQvt_lomolrPWqQ2wX1o9wamErIfxmBsE9CQZ4wajD9/s320/501px-Se%25C3%25A1n_%25C3%2593_Riada_Sculpture.jpg" title="By Dlindod (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sculpture of the composer Seán Ó Riada in Cúil Aodha<br />Photo: Dlindod (Own work); licensed under CCA.</td></tr>
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<br />
And about the content of the film? Nothing at all, it was never mentioned again.<br />
<br />
So why the indifference? Looking back it was partly down to the History syllabus of the time. Although we followed both British and Irish history as separate subjects which frequently came together albeit from different viewpoints, the time period only extended from about 1485 to the early 19th century.<br />
<br />
Also, the local economy in early 1960s Northern Ireland was booming with the production of man made fibres and goods being major new employers alongside existing large scale traditional shirt and clothing factories. Similarly, in services new opportunities were coming through its own TV networks and music prowess.<br />
<br />
High levels of emigration from the Republic underlined its failure and lack of attractiveness as a dull, backward place. The aspirations expressed in the Proclamation and the film <i>Mise Eire</i> did not match up with the reality on the ground.<br />
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~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Text © Des Farry</span></div>
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Des Farry comes originally from near Omagh in Northern Ireland and has lived in Greater Manchester for over 40 years. He has been writing since about age 15 (local notes for Ulster Herald). He has written or contributed to various published and internal non-fiction organisational professional guides and books on corporate finance plus a number of short stories for various competitions and the former Dublin Writers Site (Electric Acorn).</div>
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-49044688202600937522016-10-21T09:59:00.000-07:002016-10-21T09:59:18.415-07:00First Television: A Poem to Remember Aberfan<b>By Kevin McMahon</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i>50 years ago today, on 21 October 1966, a mountain of coal waste collapsed in a lethal avalanche into a school and houses in the village of Aberfan in Wales. 144 people, including 116 children, were killed. I wrote this poem in remembrance of those who died, and those who bore and still bear the grief of the Aberfan disaster. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>FIRST TELEVISION</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>A poem</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZWHHAh7PpS8MC7fTf2h3dQ7D8l9oFFysY0z3h6cqHogGhpsDgrSVlwys-gaJP1cWYaip9pA92Tnty0ErSdJh9SCfvpsIVL6iyP0ZUk9uvkaoYH2qfhqpvZMn1tsT3MqMYNuQ9fQr-otQv/s1600/Window_in_Ireland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZWHHAh7PpS8MC7fTf2h3dQ7D8l9oFFysY0z3h6cqHogGhpsDgrSVlwys-gaJP1cWYaip9pA92Tnty0ErSdJh9SCfvpsIVL6iyP0ZUk9uvkaoYH2qfhqpvZMn1tsT3MqMYNuQ9fQr-otQv/s320/Window_in_Ireland.jpg" title="By Danielclauzier (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: Danielclauzier (licensed under CCA). </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>21 October 1966</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Excitement welled like an unseen spring,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That last day before the half-term break.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
With skies dark and thick as coal sludge, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The rain – for the second day that week – </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Had left us trapped in classrooms</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Behind high, steamed and streaming windows.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I ached for the release of the evening bell.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Lessons ambled past my reverie,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Anticipating Bilko’s antics,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Concocting Oxo-family tableaux, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A cocoon of laughter, where Michael Miles </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Presided over “Yes-No interludes”.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Unleashed by school’s end we ran,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A yelping avalanche splitting the gloom.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A knot of women huddled sombre at the gate,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Heads scarfed against the rain, in quiet talk.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Blushing at my mother’s long embrace,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And pulling at the hand that gripped my own –</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
With more than usual tightness – </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I rattled out my plans, my hopes,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
As she palmed the raindrops from her face.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It sat, intruding on the normal,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On splayed and spindly legs,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Chairs, newly shifted to strange places,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Shrank the little parlour.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Its unfamiliar light transformed</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Our faces, pallid as we watched </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A silent throng of mothers </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Where the gates had been,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Heads scarfed against the rain. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
They stood and stared at rooftops</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Protruding from the spoil,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And waited for their children.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
~~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo 'Condensation on a Window in Wexford, Ireland', by <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Window_in_Ireland.jpg">Danielclauzier (licensed under CCA).</a> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Text: © Kevin McMahon</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo09vD4bf4ZzDgnebcMwWfENL35hRWcuYLAyDUa4vSvAFaQCE_fB4Y15sVj0010_Vp6UCwxDOCPGL_VcmZKVIzkyPjet3S0U0svxi0eDSdfg-GAP6FeHSSbRJei9ENm-quo0TEstTTGpNi/s1600/Kevin+McMahon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo09vD4bf4ZzDgnebcMwWfENL35hRWcuYLAyDUa4vSvAFaQCE_fB4Y15sVj0010_Vp6UCwxDOCPGL_VcmZKVIzkyPjet3S0U0svxi0eDSdfg-GAP6FeHSSbRJei9ENm-quo0TEstTTGpNi/s200/Kevin+McMahon.JPG" width="136" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Kevin has been a member of Manchester Irish Writers since 1998 – with a few years’ absence due to work commitments prior to his retirement! He has contributed to the group’s publications “The Retting Dam”, “Stones of the Heart” and “Changing Skies”, and regularly performs at the group’s events. He is a former winner of the “New Writing” award at Listowel Writers’ Week in Country Kerry, and has been shortlisted for a number of other awards for memoirs and short stories. With Alrene Hughes, Kevin co-edited the publication of monologues arising from the “Changing Skies” project. His scripts have been professionally performed in various venues, and he has had poetry broadcast on the BBC.</div>
E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-15349107308537500762016-10-02T11:17:00.001-07:002016-10-02T11:17:34.006-07:00Proclamation for All: A Poem<b>By Bridie Breen</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PROCLAMATION FOR ALL</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The scroll of proclamation</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
rolls words off my tongue.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
One hundred years on</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Easter 1916 bleats from within</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the Risen lamb that bled into veins</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
of the men and women who testified</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
to the call to rise, to stand united.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEititNDS9KwRwDOXbMsxqZuk3F62sMCAVgXfXpaYGBwTlLJqgNtjvtGrJ2Z96TyKJaIAzffpgGsdJbg7DWYGRobscwkkk0L9B62jbMDbtvmRePvATP4qlALL5yH1mDEKDVYBO_9XLcqMyuI/s1600/Easter_Proclamation_of_1916.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEititNDS9KwRwDOXbMsxqZuk3F62sMCAVgXfXpaYGBwTlLJqgNtjvtGrJ2Z96TyKJaIAzffpgGsdJbg7DWYGRobscwkkk0L9B62jbMDbtvmRePvATP4qlALL5yH1mDEKDVYBO_9XLcqMyuI/s320/Easter_Proclamation_of_1916.png" title="By originally uploaded to the English Wikipedia by w:User:Jtdirl [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="210" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A furnace to fire eternal endurance</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
through the lilt of a freedom song</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Each Irish man and woman</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Every daughter and son felt the fist of change</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It pounded across the land.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Demanding choices to be made </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
lines to be drawn, sides to divide</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and new history to form.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A mere century on from Grattan’s demise</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the tears of many were shed</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Emancipation the sought after prize</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Innocents died in the fury</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
while the raw truth of the cause</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
forced the iron claw to unfurl</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Dominance no longer appeased the masses.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The pulse of men whose hearts</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
raced as their pens scribed</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In a time when signatures sealed their fate</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Markers of rebellion, so distinct</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
they were sought out</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
to be executed.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEEIhbZvxUfJ9wyySXzqZ2szhImSaFBAuw96_9Hw5o_ylw3jyT-NSn5dipawu-7m8rxQP8TL_4T9nTouk1VDmfUQBkEza5y_JZKqXtG74n6Jt-7s4malwcBMoKHEEGwBeXW0woehnf4Sk/s1600/GPO_Easter_Rising_Plaque.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEEIhbZvxUfJ9wyySXzqZ2szhImSaFBAuw96_9Hw5o_ylw3jyT-NSn5dipawu-7m8rxQP8TL_4T9nTouk1VDmfUQBkEza5y_JZKqXtG74n6Jt-7s4malwcBMoKHEEGwBeXW0woehnf4Sk/s320/GPO_Easter_Rising_Plaque.jpg" title="By Kaihsu Tai (Kaihsu Tai) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="234" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
History coddled the deep </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
mourning of generations</div>
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The road ahead transformed</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
beyond belief.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Regimes of colonial past </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
illuminated by the rising dawn. </div>
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Home ruled hands may not have grasped</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the essence of Irish hearts</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Their entrenched will to change</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The question remains, as to where we’d be</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
if the blood of those in 1916 </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Became names on a chalked board</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Erased out of our imaginings.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Text © Bridie Breen.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Images are in the Public Doman via <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Easter_Rising?uselang=en-gb">Wikimedia Commons</a>.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcHw30Q2GG3AvWPzNP8WBz-apf2GNkSqKEUVwzbKCQfoK-FwnzfXn_5_qktvIgWyPoAtWnthk0FC2U2InouaekGRfLRdlQmmebYIEfv0vPIOpSO-bofwKHPjHGrtdv5Gz0aYryrGNHgej5/s1600/Bridie+Breen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcHw30Q2GG3AvWPzNP8WBz-apf2GNkSqKEUVwzbKCQfoK-FwnzfXn_5_qktvIgWyPoAtWnthk0FC2U2InouaekGRfLRdlQmmebYIEfv0vPIOpSO-bofwKHPjHGrtdv5Gz0aYryrGNHgej5/s1600/Bridie+Breen.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Bridie has been a member of Manchester Irish Writers for quite a few years. Although her first love is poetry, she writes on all topics. She has contributed to the group’s publications “Stones of the Heart” and “Changing Skies”. Her Changing Skies piece is available to download as a voice over. She regularly performs at the group’s events. She has had successful collaborations with New Attitude theatre and Emerge theatre in the past and more recently performed with Athlone Poetry in the Park group. She has taken her love of poetry to local cafe settings. She enjoys writing short scripts too. Her wish is to have a poetry anthology published. In the meantime, she’ll be trying out at performance style poetry venues to showcase new work in the coming months.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Bridie wrote 'Proclamation for All' 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.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJtcRNp6R8ionxJWAPoen-A0MEa4WcgTxwgJ2IGFGnjkswEqWrUToCvc2p07GoS3NWabuuTueK0fVJ-SG_Hrw5kMzMeT8Cwfurp8zKSWdM54J9tRUJgFHJY_BHRcE_7fgJ12Vy_uIQeS-r/s1600/The+Risen+Word+MIW+Blog.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJtcRNp6R8ionxJWAPoen-A0MEa4WcgTxwgJ2IGFGnjkswEqWrUToCvc2p07GoS3NWabuuTueK0fVJ-SG_Hrw5kMzMeT8Cwfurp8zKSWdM54J9tRUJgFHJY_BHRcE_7fgJ12Vy_uIQeS-r/s320/The+Risen+Word+MIW+Blog.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-22085550196158481352016-09-11T06:07:00.000-07:002016-09-11T06:09:48.366-07:00Primroses for Aisling: Poem<b>By Mary Walsh</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PRIMROSES FOR AISLING</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>A poem</b></div>
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFAhfMgrZn-yYaYXZTg9W2FBdM0xGXN7-lzA2K2PSKv7Nz4M0Rww7HxmsKMdUpbUxNTttO7y7kLy3SID84vYZHJFAPCS7cPAENfZRg7peeS68nGu0QQJnhKtShElnm6-TxrPKEFqWCVw_o/s1600/PIC+1+Many+Flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFAhfMgrZn-yYaYXZTg9W2FBdM0xGXN7-lzA2K2PSKv7Nz4M0Rww7HxmsKMdUpbUxNTttO7y7kLy3SID84vYZHJFAPCS7cPAENfZRg7peeS68nGu0QQJnhKtShElnm6-TxrPKEFqWCVw_o/s1600/PIC+1+Many+Flowers.jpg" title="Public Domain image via Visual Hunt" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
It’s rising dawn.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
From high on a hill</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He looks down over Carlingford Lough</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Shining in the low distance.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He turns to see his sheep and lambs</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Grazing his land</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The land his father worked. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoJRA-d8qjGHzNxKoJ3N7Qz-Za1xYsRnz-lzI3lh7Zo1s-yLxQ_GH6uhrXgk7Fq75J7O-8AXpR8Zh7o-NPcACXEB6DB66NV3S3ReFkPYFOD_Iws3zg1EgOpQLRUE9YPQ90fkRvpkrzdwf0/s1600/PIC+Sheep.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoJRA-d8qjGHzNxKoJ3N7Qz-Za1xYsRnz-lzI3lh7Zo1s-yLxQ_GH6uhrXgk7Fq75J7O-8AXpR8Zh7o-NPcACXEB6DB66NV3S3ReFkPYFOD_Iws3zg1EgOpQLRUE9YPQ90fkRvpkrzdwf0/s200/PIC+Sheep.JPG" title="Image © E.M. Powell" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He loves this place, this springtime of the year,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Has learned the intricacies of birth and death in fold and field</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He has tended this night’s births well.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Dawn is well lit</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The light below in the kitchen a field away is bright.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A last look about him then he moves towards the house.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But do not imagine his mind, busy with his lambs and sheep</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Does not imbibe the beauty of the hills and hedges.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-UhK5T4iCLeuF9GshuVHoSdXFtRlpAE5uZgPOf2Y8aMOmp8QWxoHboI9UEnkO56gadITjIvYAQcY9V6Pw1g_nsYnP1rmWNQC_txzwZfegZLkwHRkiplS2SQHb7FiRI_lpj3bUbwJmqoaR/s1600/PIC+Cottage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-UhK5T4iCLeuF9GshuVHoSdXFtRlpAE5uZgPOf2Y8aMOmp8QWxoHboI9UEnkO56gadITjIvYAQcY9V6Pw1g_nsYnP1rmWNQC_txzwZfegZLkwHRkiplS2SQHb7FiRI_lpj3bUbwJmqoaR/s200/PIC+Cottage.jpg" title="By National Library of Ireland on The Commons (Cottage with dog at the gate!) [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Returning to the house he gathers the spring’s loveliness</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A bunch of primroses, moist with dew</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Bears them in his working hands</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And offers them to his young wife</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
As she waits at the open door.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
The gift, the beauty of their yellow paleness</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Fills her with love</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She holds them to her face, looks up to him and takes his hand.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPlyHhDPd6U2C9-Jh9WG0KAiJ2Tzx8SpPC7c-0t8MLL2RAaKyyCnc5IYf3c6-iH6AOw4_ky11FSm_L9rGvRX3WOW6Ca0-zR2zeHmJgU7MNCnypGvwk5hzjsdiz6YFtvuuHGMRhgErXviBm/s1600/PIC+Flowers+in+Pot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPlyHhDPd6U2C9-Jh9WG0KAiJ2Tzx8SpPC7c-0t8MLL2RAaKyyCnc5IYf3c6-iH6AOw4_ky11FSm_L9rGvRX3WOW6Ca0-zR2zeHmJgU7MNCnypGvwk5hzjsdiz6YFtvuuHGMRhgErXviBm/s200/PIC+Flowers+in+Pot.jpg" title="Public Domain Image via Visual Hunt" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Text © Mary Walsh.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Images in this post are in the Public Domain via </span><a href="http://www.visualhunt.com/" style="font-size: small;">www.visualhunt.com</a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> and </span><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Cottage_with_dog_at_the_gate!_(16268905796).jpg?uselang=en-gb" style="font-size: small;">Wikimedia Commons.</a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Image of grazing sheep is © E.M. Powell. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGuwXfqDgiREYXZRvL4YBBD7C1PNBpWc8Cv_uUVj5Xey8cPtSbOoeeaqWRwzqH9X71CweUS5I5BvfbAcXrMmeCBH541P2lgi8FcfQD-fUrw6MoB5clWJMLxuTh_YO8AI73zjt7eXDIUgi/s1600/Mary+Walsh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGuwXfqDgiREYXZRvL4YBBD7C1PNBpWc8Cv_uUVj5Xey8cPtSbOoeeaqWRwzqH9X71CweUS5I5BvfbAcXrMmeCBH541P2lgi8FcfQD-fUrw6MoB5clWJMLxuTh_YO8AI73zjt7eXDIUgi/s200/Mary+Walsh.jpg" width="131" /></a></div>
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Mary Walsh was born in County Armagh. She came to Manchester and trained as a nurse in Ancoats hospital. Some years later she went into teaching and taught English in Thornleigh College, Bolton until she retired. She has been a member of the Irish Writers since 2007.</div>
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-69762378069460474842016-07-03T13:21:00.000-07:002016-07-03T13:21:06.101-07:00Lest We Forget: Poem for Somme 100<b>By Bridie Breen</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8_Xad8ZSOge20iudqjJ-O_QRxCCHagyENHNy-rhm_gC4ymqnRNhA9jcBghKmKWkwh7M0hhLuPW6PfwIS-Vi5h2VHm_7yxo7LYXza_dFwy30HD0_4aQCGhJ-tp0FNXOMK4ztNqC8dlEfda/s1600/Poppies+Banner.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8_Xad8ZSOge20iudqjJ-O_QRxCCHagyENHNy-rhm_gC4ymqnRNhA9jcBghKmKWkwh7M0hhLuPW6PfwIS-Vi5h2VHm_7yxo7LYXza_dFwy30HD0_4aQCGhJ-tp0FNXOMK4ztNqC8dlEfda/s320/Poppies+Banner.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Our final post in Manchester Irish Writers' commemoration of the Battle of the Somme.</i><br />
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<b>LEST WE FORGET</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKEzKL_qt5L5aWmMDbar6-WQ4OE98jGwQHhI4ebcGQDjsaMXGz_nQ7wVh6kYCKAVhtXOac2DdCo8X2d57tHFnIeoi5c9FGIzoC6YgnVM3zvytOyu8qNteNpfRLfSH-jkVCJcsw9ybr9eW/s1600/The_Battle_of_the_Somme%252C_July-november_1916_Q4327.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AThe_Battle_of_the_Somme%2C_July-november_1916_Q4327.jpg" border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKEzKL_qt5L5aWmMDbar6-WQ4OE98jGwQHhI4ebcGQDjsaMXGz_nQ7wVh6kYCKAVhtXOac2DdCo8X2d57tHFnIeoi5c9FGIzoC6YgnVM3zvytOyu8qNteNpfRLfSH-jkVCJcsw9ybr9eW/s320/The_Battle_of_the_Somme%252C_July-november_1916_Q4327.jpg" title="By Brooke, John Warwick (Lieutenant) (Photographer) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></a></div>
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Lest we forget</div>
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a watery grave </div>
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or grovelling in muck</div>
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in rat filled ditches</div>
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by brave young men.</div>
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Hell bent on justice</div>
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and survival.</div>
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There for duty</div>
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loyalty to brother </div>
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allies and crown</div>
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Full of desire</div>
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for a better world</div>
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with freedom from tyranny.</div>
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No time to admire</div>
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amber sunsets</div>
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at Arromanche</div>
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Each new day dawn</div>
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scattered the dead</div>
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in grit and gloom.</div>
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Ashes to ashes</div>
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away from home</div>
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Au Revoir letters</div>
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written before bullet</div>
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shot and shell.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjuBQqWjlaFPedWKE4EFe7G_FQub7yF1hLF6gTKNiprhAUbjNyKTP5kT3gVSd7unxUYVhjn93xPjkSJzBCKteD0YCpRCg8vi37A51RyCpVOpNo32EduhDnvUW54dQvfOkebA4EY7JRDOQN/s1600/Poppies+3+AM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjuBQqWjlaFPedWKE4EFe7G_FQub7yF1hLF6gTKNiprhAUbjNyKTP5kT3gVSd7unxUYVhjn93xPjkSJzBCKteD0YCpRCg8vi37A51RyCpVOpNo32EduhDnvUW54dQvfOkebA4EY7JRDOQN/s320/Poppies+3+AM.jpg" title="© Alison Morton" width="320" /></a></div>
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Resilient mothers</div>
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suffocated by grief</div>
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as paper telegrams </div>
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choked breath and dreams.</div>
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The unborn unknowing</div>
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of the reason</div>
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for bravery.</div>
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Three score and ten</div>
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the allotted span </div>
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where peace reigns.</div>
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Lest we forget </div>
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the sacrifice</div>
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of a ghosted generation</div>
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that gifted our sleep</div>
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by their bloodied youth.</div>
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Beaches of golden silt</div>
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buried deep the past</div>
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Inscriptions as markers</div>
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of heroes not forgotten.</div>
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We the keepers </div>
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the watchers</div>
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of our world.</div>
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Lest we forget.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgktN2d8zUQaOC_KyTSAXI2L_wBkG4tV-mAoAxDz2JzDWq96PfkSMdkgfscB25FR-RJglIPIrGSQ4DETfEmPTDGDmC2DdcX8hNyxUfIbOIi0umvPPY7jh6Rst74N9IcNVP0BJudwUkfy1_c/s1600/Poppies+3+AM+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgktN2d8zUQaOC_KyTSAXI2L_wBkG4tV-mAoAxDz2JzDWq96PfkSMdkgfscB25FR-RJglIPIrGSQ4DETfEmPTDGDmC2DdcX8hNyxUfIbOIi0umvPPY7jh6Rst74N9IcNVP0BJudwUkfy1_c/s200/Poppies+3+AM+%25282%2529.jpg" title="© Alison Morton" width="200" /></a></div>
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
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Poppy images courtesy of & <a href="http://alison-morton.com/">© Alison Morton.</a></div>
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Text © Bridie Breen</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHGb23NKBSWNCnUoX5x1HQS1ZoG-fhdfxHTHZHOaQSu4zAHhQSgd759d6xF1xb-kQDoVHypKUEnqgV7kMyrIMe1T581TzqKkmtHcT0xumV2tk7qCFSxG7rwyzW43wTQE1IYi04NlM9OFdr/s1600/Bridie+Breen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHGb23NKBSWNCnUoX5x1HQS1ZoG-fhdfxHTHZHOaQSu4zAHhQSgd759d6xF1xb-kQDoVHypKUEnqgV7kMyrIMe1T581TzqKkmtHcT0xumV2tk7qCFSxG7rwyzW43wTQE1IYi04NlM9OFdr/s1600/Bridie+Breen.jpg" /></a></div>
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Bridie has been a member of Manchester Irish Writers for quite a few years. Although her first love is poetry, she writes on all topics. She has contributed to the group’s publications <i>“Stones of the Heart”</i> and <i>“Changing Skies”</i>. Her Changing Skies piece is available to download as a voice over. She regularly performs at the group’s events. She has had successful collaborations with New Attitude theatre and Emerge theatre in the past and more recently performed with Athlone Poetry in the Park group. She has taken her love of poetry to local cafe settings. She enjoys writing short scripts too. Her wish is to have a poetry anthology published. In the meantime, she’ll be trying out at performance style poetry venues to showcase new work in the coming months.</div>
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To find out more about MIW's Somme 100 Commemoration, please click <a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2016/06/manchester-irish-writers-somme-100.html">here</a>.</div>
E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-64646911438042164352016-07-03T06:46:00.002-07:002016-07-03T06:46:56.623-07:00More like Rugby than Football<b>By Des Farry</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ1-f8Pz_TGtDteI8BeGXZ7FAP-nWzrrkmXA2n3dPCOLpon3oI-tjhFvut-1FkHfLbPmH94sNJ5lxeGiGnGk6130mJr5xfOQ2AkmyFwoxctphIUqrUGaANiMWbxPUy4O4qvJ5WNXoFP64m/s1600/Poppies+Banner.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ1-f8Pz_TGtDteI8BeGXZ7FAP-nWzrrkmXA2n3dPCOLpon3oI-tjhFvut-1FkHfLbPmH94sNJ5lxeGiGnGk6130mJr5xfOQ2AkmyFwoxctphIUqrUGaANiMWbxPUy4O4qvJ5WNXoFP64m/s320/Poppies+Banner.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>This is a different perspective on the Somme which looks at brief moments of normality occurring in a terrible conflict which is set against a sports background and draws some comparisons between both.</i><br />
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<b>MORE LIKE RUGBY THAN FOOTBALL</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioKHxnmVYeEN43bYeE-i9zIZpEReFD4ZThpX0uEgIDq8ncr8T7sSgRTcdukhSbGlVgZ8nMBgGbInymOgmCZYxZP89zcLftCcPDMTK59LsrxgJMTZ5GMZyj9zp57_5YN4gTJIZWJeDqh9Ju/s1600/Christmas_day_football_WWI_1915.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AChristmas_day_football_WWI_1915.jpg" border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioKHxnmVYeEN43bYeE-i9zIZpEReFD4ZThpX0uEgIDq8ncr8T7sSgRTcdukhSbGlVgZ8nMBgGbInymOgmCZYxZP89zcLftCcPDMTK59LsrxgJMTZ5GMZyj9zp57_5YN4gTJIZWJeDqh9Ju/s320/Christmas_day_football_WWI_1915.jpg" title="By Varges Ariel, Ministry of Information [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></a></div>
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They were sent on the attack on the first day, their objective was the German Schwaben Redoubt.<br />
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The Ulsters reached their target but couldn’t hold it. In the horror and confusion of the battle the reinforcements sent to support them never made it through no man’s land and they were forced to retreat. The soil of Thiepval Wood and the trenches previously dug there by the French and Scottish Regiments, named after local landmarks or place names of Scotland, hold the bodies and names of those who never made it and were never found, a cemetery of trees not headstones.<br />
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It wasn’t just them that day, it was the same all over. It was the way that it was all through the following weeks and months, a never ending repetitive story that never reached a conclusion.<br />
They weren’t alone. There were so many other different races of people that he had never met before.<br />
The Ulsters were fighting alongside Irish troops from the Connaught Rangers. The English, Welsh, Scottish, Australian, South Africans were their colleagues with whom they could communicate. It was more difficult to do so with the French and French-African troops.<br />
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It was during the rare breaks in this horror that they sometimes were able to talk about the life that they had lived before they all had come together in this hell hole.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63OXc1bOvhJLjBAZpuKfbk24b87kNIxouTmJ6aSqnSly2Ir5VYDyZXLvqW2M2hMD4fXEbBNc3VOD3SzoA-nLEXzln9oXcu2HX4JOrJ7yNGqEXiLhiX7EEzr45Z9UPNPC9O0PLCw-7O5bX/s1600/Sport_during_the_First_World_War_Q61558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3ASport_during_the_First_World_War_Q61558.jpg" border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63OXc1bOvhJLjBAZpuKfbk24b87kNIxouTmJ6aSqnSly2Ir5VYDyZXLvqW2M2hMD4fXEbBNc3VOD3SzoA-nLEXzln9oXcu2HX4JOrJ7yNGqEXiLhiX7EEzr45Z9UPNPC9O0PLCw-7O5bX/s320/Sport_during_the_First_World_War_Q61558.jpg" title="By Barclay (2nd Lieutenant) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></a></div>
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Football was a favoured topic. Competitive football had stopped in England. No one knew when it would restart. He’d been talking about it with the Manchesters. There was a bribery scandal involving one of their clubs which remained unresolved.<br />
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The break along the line on Christmas Day to play football on No Man’s Land was a far too brief escape to normality from a pointless shifting war, where you moved forward, then backward to where you were a few months ago. A time to exchange gifts and souvenirs, try each other’s helmets and swap cigarettes.<br />
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It stuck in his mind. It was only much later when he read about the Connaught Rangers involvement that he thought that the whole war was more like rugby than football. It was the pack moving forward and backwards, it was about maintaining possession and territory.<br />
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Text © Des Farry<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrl4IyE_DUef_KP3c2SA-oJiLWTEfjCjZU1KwIkndwWhDS6sHaZl4hgffRLYKlTaPm8hYU3PtZYgQp-0falL0_Bi6HLGAkpIPi_XnJQWo6YowaQO4ezN4LdWqEGXHvAWHAx42YoK10xcf/s1600/Des+Farry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrl4IyE_DUef_KP3c2SA-oJiLWTEfjCjZU1KwIkndwWhDS6sHaZl4hgffRLYKlTaPm8hYU3PtZYgQp-0falL0_Bi6HLGAkpIPi_XnJQWo6YowaQO4ezN4LdWqEGXHvAWHAx42YoK10xcf/s200/Des+Farry.jpg" width="191" /></a></div>
Des Farry comes originally from near Omagh in Northern Ireland and has lived in Greater Manchester for over 40 years. He has been writing since about age 15 (local notes for Ulster Herald). He has written or contributed to various published and internal non-fiction organisational professional guides and books on corporate finance plus a number of short stories for various competitions and the former Dublin Writers Site (Electric Acorn).<br />
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To find out more about MIW's Somme 100 Commemoration, please click <a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2016/06/manchester-irish-writers-somme-100.html">here</a>.<br />
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E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-31981155631674450372016-07-02T10:44:00.000-07:002016-07-02T10:44:02.485-07:00The Widow Quinn: Poem for Somme 100<b>By Kevin McMahon</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhFOeA87IURfNwlE8Q1swsgEQx8mcz1xHnjDWLe8sTCqF2dm1N9stcj7c0sNEnjnK2xEXHc5hnbtCxPLk4KeSeov8YEk8KcEWbHyBWA0mBpdfAX6CfGqvBCmYwXLu0kfdL-6ZOOng1Le4k/s1600/Poppies+Banner.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhFOeA87IURfNwlE8Q1swsgEQx8mcz1xHnjDWLe8sTCqF2dm1N9stcj7c0sNEnjnK2xEXHc5hnbtCxPLk4KeSeov8YEk8KcEWbHyBWA0mBpdfAX6CfGqvBCmYwXLu0kfdL-6ZOOng1Le4k/s320/Poppies+Banner.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Just about every village in Ireland had them: old women in black shawls who lived totally secluded lives, often scorned or feared by their neighbours. Few took the trouble to understand such women, or what had made them the way they were. </i><br />
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<i>At a time of great political upheaval in Ireland, the tens of thousands of men who enlisted to fight in the First World War were derided for turning their backs on the fight for freedom at home The sacrifice that so many made was disregarded. This poem focuses on one such case.</i><br />
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<b>THE WIDOW QUINN</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3k-O5Oz74BK5xUsae-YTWWE-c2BvJ-2Yhhe_pTB4efZUPCOlbvmYCMXBIspZczq0qLNwaSiaSyxRKrQ5YVEtFQn19A2jIKgcOkCjBDNfxwSk8_Es13_2luJ1uvA0S6NDIoH19rfJMYy7T/s1600/Wrau-keel-woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3k-O5Oz74BK5xUsae-YTWWE-c2BvJ-2Yhhe_pTB4efZUPCOlbvmYCMXBIspZczq0qLNwaSiaSyxRKrQ5YVEtFQn19A2jIKgcOkCjBDNfxwSk8_Es13_2luJ1uvA0S6NDIoH19rfJMYy7T/s320/Wrau-keel-woman.jpg" title="By William H. Rau (photographer) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="297" /></a></div>
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Birdsong shrank the road outside her house, </div>
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To a dappled tunnel, thrilled with noise,</div>
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Draped with cloak of honeysuckle scent.</div>
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Our step quickened when we passed her gate,</div>
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Not taking chances, hushed and fearful </div>
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Of the older, bolder ones who risked</div>
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A bating shout or threw fir cones at the door. </div>
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We deciphered parents’ warnings,</div>
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“Poor woman” comments, shorn of sympathy;</div>
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Their surreptitious nods, and knowing looks</div>
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Belied begrudged respect for a soldier’s wife.</div>
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Her wits had been astray since his early death,</div>
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At a place called Somme in France, they said.</div>
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A wasted life in England’s war, they said.</div>
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One winter day I met her face to face,</div>
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Black-shawled as ever, bent with strain</div>
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As she hefted water from the roadside spring.</div>
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She stopped and gaped a toothless smile at me</div>
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But contagious dread tore my gaze aside,</div>
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And breathless with panic I bolted home.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYPxhHsuAP6xCLiVkJ1Y1Uu-rLiwHbvm1lvtWBme_zB3hb7L-ouoaS6aVu07MQ4CUOGRhXuQMmWBE0efR9UV5hT1gmwZ3YNJ7v509hO2xhUt5KgLn0tw9d-7Wnj0ccG9ODLLZnSdmkfI-4/s1600/Winter+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYPxhHsuAP6xCLiVkJ1Y1Uu-rLiwHbvm1lvtWBme_zB3hb7L-ouoaS6aVu07MQ4CUOGRhXuQMmWBE0efR9UV5hT1gmwZ3YNJ7v509hO2xhUt5KgLn0tw9d-7Wnj0ccG9ODLLZnSdmkfI-4/s320/Winter+%25282%2529.JPG" title="© E.M. Powell" width="320" /></a></div>
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That March she died – as she had lived so long – </div>
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Alone, her last instructions written for the priest.</div>
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Beneath the widow’s shawl, her waist length hair </div>
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Had been plaited in a coil of startling white.</div>
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As she had willed the hair was then cut short,</div>
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Its strands hung in the branches of her trees.</div>
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When, later, neighbours gathered at the church –</div>
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Each drawn by duty rather than respect – </div>
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They shook their heads and shrugged, and all agreed</div>
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The “poor old thing was soft this many year”,</div>
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While in the budding bushes round her house</div>
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The birds wove nests with glinting flecks of white.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8d4gFszaIIxHfz6lg5pJ8cIQqRI12jz1y-k452vNTI3eZd1r0VWrAVeOLH1xiRBufrLonvVMUprizjPvRrBge5AGXnePRawZi7Xpw8AF0s-G53N6T1jMB70zyqo5wSAZgtg_M_t2ulePm/s1600/Feather+with+White.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8d4gFszaIIxHfz6lg5pJ8cIQqRI12jz1y-k452vNTI3eZd1r0VWrAVeOLH1xiRBufrLonvVMUprizjPvRrBge5AGXnePRawZi7Xpw8AF0s-G53N6T1jMB70zyqo5wSAZgtg_M_t2ulePm/s320/Feather+with+White.JPG" title="© E.M. Powell" width="239" /></a></div>
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
Text © Kevin McMahon<br />
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Kevin has been a member of Manchester Irish Writers since 1998 – with a few years’ absence due to work commitments prior to his retirement! He has contributed to the group’s publications <i>“The Retting Dam”</i>, <i>“Stones of the Heart”</i> and <i>“Changing Skies”</i>, and regularly performs at the group’s events. He is a former winner of the “New Writing” award at Listowel Writers’ Week in Country Kerry, and has been shortlisted for a number of other awards for memoirs and short stories. <br />
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With Alrene Hughes, Kevin co-edited the publication of monologues arising from the Changing Skies project. His scripts have been professionally performed in various venues, and he has had poetry broadcast on the BBC.<br />
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To find out more about MIW's Somme 100 Commemoration, please click <a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2016/06/manchester-irish-writers-somme-100.html">here</a>.E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-14221254588933166892016-07-02T05:36:00.000-07:002016-07-02T05:36:03.976-07:00Testimonies of Trauma: The Somme and other Battles in World War 1<b>By Rose Morris</b><br />
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Military History has described much of the four months of Somme battles in detail. The records of the regiments attacked and the weaponry used, the comprehensive casualty lists are always used to describe the horrors of the First World War. They explain to us what happened in facts and figures but do not tell the real human story and the conditions in which these men fought. They fail to describe the daily life of the soldier, or of the landscape in which he lived, fought and got injured or died. They do not tell of his family, the loved ones he left behind. It is only from the letters that were sent while alive that we get an insight into their human state, their thoughts and fears, their plight or their reasons for being there.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9RbBj0c9lVV6efrDsdhwS7oFDcTXsT2WQh3bqadpdTEmKdoh3STDIqkPCZbjIJX_oGMSaBd4E62iAGS2xfZs_dz_PsVvVN7JJ_FMjsS0XcdyRXYnm4tuFZlmrbAA3eXzn5vPa18yi7Ea8/s1600/The_Battle_of_the_Somme%252C_July-november_1916_Q4245.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/fb/The_Battle_of_the_Somme%2C_July-november_1916_Q4245.jpg" border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9RbBj0c9lVV6efrDsdhwS7oFDcTXsT2WQh3bqadpdTEmKdoh3STDIqkPCZbjIJX_oGMSaBd4E62iAGS2xfZs_dz_PsVvVN7JJ_FMjsS0XcdyRXYnm4tuFZlmrbAA3eXzn5vPa18yi7Ea8/s320/The_Battle_of_the_Somme%252C_July-november_1916_Q4245.jpg" title="By Brooke, John Warwick (Lieutenant) (Photographer) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></a></div>
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To learn more about this we are fortunate that the interpretation by poets and writers who enlisted, soldiers letters to their loved ones, artists such as Paul Nash, photographers like Fr. Frank Browne, of Titanic fame, and the diaries of survivors to enlighten us on this aspect of war as they present their observations and feelings in a more emotional and human way.<br />
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Over the past one hundred years, so much great writing has been sourced from World War 1 testimonies. Donegal writer Patrick McGill’s novel, <i>The Great Push</i>. Sean O’Casey’s play, <i>The Silver Tassie</i>. <i>How Many Miles to Babylon</i>, Jennifer Johnston’s novel. Frank McGuiness’s play, <i>Observe the Sons of Ulster Marching Towards the Somme</i>. <i>A Long Long Way</i>, Sebastian Barry’s novel.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCANaspHUyxL2Wn-uOMedADLKJho0SOTykqlmsIxo7Ilnk-kZmUKQorisU_L7-iWvdZG2CfSIyDM56tIqMCIE28nxs-pLqSVcjYMJIpIrAwRXbdCytoh-qrVlb1ZPv5Vm6SCpyTxyk0Chb/s1600/The+Silver+Tassie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCANaspHUyxL2Wn-uOMedADLKJho0SOTykqlmsIxo7Ilnk-kZmUKQorisU_L7-iWvdZG2CfSIyDM56tIqMCIE28nxs-pLqSVcjYMJIpIrAwRXbdCytoh-qrVlb1ZPv5Vm6SCpyTxyk0Chb/s320/The+Silver+Tassie.jpg" width="203" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Silver-Tassie-Sean-OCasey-ebook/dp/B00J75KIK6/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1467459788&sr=1-1&keywords=the+silver+tassie">The Silver Tassie by Sean O'Casey</a></td></tr>
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They tell this story against a background of destruction, pungent smells and of mud and slime all of which appears to be ingrained in the mind of survivors, never to forgotten. Personal reports and stories of World War 1 describes men living like animals beneath the ground in trenches and dug-outs in a ‘world of mud’ and often makes use of words such as burrow and crawl, a language more associated with wildlife than human beings. Patrick McGill served as a stretcher-bearer on the Western Front, remarked <i>“a soldier came crawling towards us on his belly, looking for all the world like a gigantic lobster that had escaped from its basket."</i><br />
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Often highlighted in these expressions is the soldier’s struggle with his conscience on his true reason for being there and his thoughts on the futility of war.<br />
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This can be more evident in the work of two Irish writers, Thomas Kettle and Francis Ledwidge for they have also had to come to terms with fighting on behalf of a country which has historically been perceived as the enemy and both of them had been Irish Volunteers actively seeking independence alongside the poets and writers of the Celtic Revival who were among these executed in the 1916 Rising.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOfYaAP6dREn9Mk41juEN6r1x1oGCxvH_uzk0t7M_zEvKoBgD-ePdt98oYU1C6GaYCL42SlfAmxr6niBqovxInDRWVW9GvjK1gvNPWFk2ZvSp9RK_ENsxWbi0dssCtHa3sh3FnXHuWiHvA/s1600/Tom_Kettle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3ATom_Kettle.jpg" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOfYaAP6dREn9Mk41juEN6r1x1oGCxvH_uzk0t7M_zEvKoBgD-ePdt98oYU1C6GaYCL42SlfAmxr6niBqovxInDRWVW9GvjK1gvNPWFk2ZvSp9RK_ENsxWbi0dssCtHa3sh3FnXHuWiHvA/s320/Tom_Kettle.jpg" title="By Undetermined [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thomas Kettle</td></tr>
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In his poem, <i>To my Daughter Betty, A Gift From God</i>, Kettle leaves very little doubt as to his feelings and his fear that he would not survive the war. It is dated ‘<i>In the field, before Guillemont, Somme, Sept. 4, 1916’</i>. He was killed in the battlefield in Ginchy four days later.<br />
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<i>So here, while the mad guns curse overhead
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<i>And tired men sigh with mud for couch and floor,</i></div>
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Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead
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<i>Died not for flag, nor King nor Emperor </i></div>
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But for a dream, born in a herdsman's shed,
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<i>And for the secret Scripture of the poor.</i></div>
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In a letter to his brother Kettle wrote,<br />
<i>“I hope to come back. If not, I believe that to sleep here in the France I have loved is no harsh fate, and that so passing out into silence, I shall help towards the Irish settlement." </i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnR1fcDmVJ7ppe9aVmS7312nfReywLm5MkzXD89gfxUU1p1emg-QQYSf0UtcjSobvs3dhJs_mvBFi93Zr-z8r3cYaNIIXI5nYH4RANxwz5hQa3odL5ejZVPNzjSjZtPbCxeQlcl2xwwOYB/s1600/Frances_Ledwidge_from_Bain_collection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AFrances_Ledwidge_from_Bain_collection.jpg" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnR1fcDmVJ7ppe9aVmS7312nfReywLm5MkzXD89gfxUU1p1emg-QQYSf0UtcjSobvs3dhJs_mvBFi93Zr-z8r3cYaNIIXI5nYH4RANxwz5hQa3odL5ejZVPNzjSjZtPbCxeQlcl2xwwOYB/s320/Frances_Ledwidge_from_Bain_collection.jpg" title="By The original uploader was Richard Arthur Norton (1958- ) at English Wikipedia (Transferred from en.wikipedia to Commons.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis Ledwidge<br /></td></tr>
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It is a striking contrast that Ledwidge’s war poetry, inspired by his memories of the natural habitat of his native County Meath, still retains a pastoral flavour while all around him was <i>'the muddy ranks of war’.</i><br />
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<i>The hedges are all drowned in green grass seas,
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<i>And bobbing poppies flare like Elmo's light,
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<i>While siren-like the pollen-stained bees
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<i>Drone in the clover depths. And up the height
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<i>The cuckoo's voice is hoarse and broke with joy.
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<i>And on the lowland crops the crows make raid,</i>.</div>
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Before his death, Ledwidge wrote to the poet, Katherine Tynan:<br />
<i>"If I survive the war I have great hopes of writing something that will live. If not, I trust to be remembered in my own land for one or two things which its long sorrow inspired." </i><br />
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He is, in fact, well remembered for his poem written after the execution of his friend Thomas McDonagh;<br />
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<i>He shall not hear the bittern cry
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<i>In the wild sky, where he is lain,</i></div>
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Ledwidge was killed by an artillery shell at Ypres in 1917 and is buried in the cemetery at Artillery Wood at Boesinghe.<br />
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Kettle and Ledwidge have left behind a powerful testimony of their wartime experience as Irish nationalists in the British army. They speak to us on behalf of the many for whom we have no written record. They saw themselves engaged in a fight in Ireland's name and for Ireland's cause.<br />
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It is perhaps not wholly surprising that the writings of Kettle and Ledwidge have been overlooked. In Ireland. Their sacrifice was long overshadowed in modern Irish history which mainly dwelt on the General Post Office in 1916 rather than the Western Front.<br />
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Another interesting contrast is to be found in the literary responses from W.B. Yeats, who was not involved in military action yet he defines this particular period in Irish history and reflects on the dilemma of Irish men fighting in the British Army.<br />
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<i>I know that I shall meet my fate</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Somewhere among the clouds above;</i></div>
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<i>Those that I fight I do not hate</i></div>
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<i>Those that I guard I do not love.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm4BT0Xt5Wd46UjVUaS0lD5SbDDkSisRksAoOq3lrgFvx10pZSHZgJigq1PMriopAFdrPykGUIV-hKeVrRJblB9WDqCjrCsffTv9X0XpU6jp4O3vHHtJGf-8nssOhBOtelHGAkb6XpYLzF/s1600/Rainbows_couds_sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><img alt="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3ARainbows_couds_sky.jpg" border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm4BT0Xt5Wd46UjVUaS0lD5SbDDkSisRksAoOq3lrgFvx10pZSHZgJigq1PMriopAFdrPykGUIV-hKeVrRJblB9WDqCjrCsffTv9X0XpU6jp4O3vHHtJGf-8nssOhBOtelHGAkb6XpYLzF/s320/Rainbows_couds_sky.jpg" title="By Jon Sullivan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons" width="320" /></i></a></div>
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
© Rose Morris<br />
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Rose Morris was born near Dungannon, in Co. Tyrone. Having retired from a career in Art and Design Education in Greater Manchester she now spends more time pursuing her creative interests and involvement in community projects in Manchester and County Tyrone.<br />
She co-founded the Manchester Irish Writers group with Alrene Hughes in 1994.<br />
Her continued involvement and sharing within that group has greatly enhanced the development of her own writing.<br />
Her short stories, monologues and poetry have been included in the Manchester Irish Writers’ published collections; <i>The End of the Rodden</i>, <i>The Retting Dam</i>, <i>Stone of the Heart</i>, <i>Drawing Breath</i> and <i>Changing Skies.</i><br />
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To find out more about MIW's Somme 100 Commemoration, please click <a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2016/06/manchester-irish-writers-somme-100.html">here</a>.E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889044046732745800.post-88501614401451119982016-07-01T11:16:00.000-07:002016-07-01T11:25:39.011-07:00July 1st 1916: Poem for Somme 100<b>By Bridie Breen</b><br />
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<i>A poem to mark the centenary of the battle of the Somme, 100 years ago today</i>.<br />
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<b>JULY 1ST 1916</b></div>
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The lads practised the names </div>
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of French townlands,</div>
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while holding fort in trenches</div>
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in Thiepval Wood.</div>
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Laughed in camaraderie, </div>
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as they accented Chantilly.</div>
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Dreamt of Parisienne ladies</div>
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bedecked in fancy hats and lacy attire.</div>
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Imagined steamy fetlocks,</div>
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cigar smoke and winning bets.</div>
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But no horses ran on the racecourse,</div>
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in the Battle of the Somme.</div>
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Commanders commanded</div>
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and the war raged on.</div>
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Kitchener’s finger had pointed to all.</div>
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The young hearts of a nation swelled</div>
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as Volunteer armies forged.</div>
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Neighbours steeled by patriotic fervour,</div>
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Wished to serve alongside each other.</div>
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Childhood friends bonded forever </div>
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as brothers in arms. </div>
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Lord Derby called them a Battalion of Pals.</div>
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Regiments gathered in one week flat</div>
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from farmland and village,</div>
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they went together en masse</div>
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to stand tall or fall down,</div>
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in the name of their God, </div>
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King and country.</div>
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Town and City names </div>
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were bore with pride.</div>
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Enlisted not conscripted,</div>
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heading for the Western Front.</div>
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A cloudless sky, as dawn broke into July.</div>
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Mist laden Rivers Ancre and Somme</div>
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spoke of sunny possibilities to </div>
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Generals in Chateau’s</div>
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While helmeted young men</div>
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Signed themselves with a cross</div>
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Kissed items of sentiment</div>
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Wrote hurried letters to mothers </div>
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and sweethearts.</div>
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Looked to each other, </div>
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nodded to bugle horn, then went over the top.</div>
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If war had not been the reason</div>
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a race perhaps or a restful relax.</div>
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No such luck as they waded</div>
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in mucky rat filled pits.</div>
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Cannon fodder, </div>
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so far away from home.</div>
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In that French valley of death </div>
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machine gun fire showered </div>
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from the sky</div>
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Wires had been cut in time,</div>
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a vain hope held for deadly attack.</div>
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Efforts failed to prise Beaucourt </div>
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from German grasp</div>
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Haig and Joffre’s great plans met mishap</div>
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Concrete dugouts, withstood well</div>
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bombarding shells.</div>
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German trenches, stayed intact.</div>
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Bodies lay where they fell.</div>
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A mound for comrades to climb across,</div>
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caused much delay and further loss.</div>
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A hill too high to make advance</div>
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Boys were forced to become men</div>
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on that Gommecourt spot.</div>
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Lieutenant Cather’s gallantry</div>
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saved some wounded men </div>
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Little chance himself of surviving</div>
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such a carnival of hell.</div>
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Nine Victoria crosses</div>
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awarded on that first Somme day</div>
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Six died in selfless sacrifice</div>
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Three lived to wear the medal</div>
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and relive the deed to their end</div>
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A cemetery now stands where once </div>
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many thousands plodded</div>
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then dropped as stones</div>
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in the Big Push, onto No Man’s land.</div>
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
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Text © Bridie Breen</div>
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Bridie Breen has been a member of Manchester Irish Writers for quite a few years. Although her first love is poetry, she writes on all topics. She has contributed to the group’s publications <i>“Stones of the Heart”</i> and <i>“Changing Skies”</i>. Her Changing Skies piece is available to download as a voice over. She regularly performs at the group’s events. She has had successful collaborations with New Attitude theatre and Emerge theatre in the past and more recently performed with Athlone Poetry in the Park group. She has taken her love of poetry to local cafe settings. She enjoys writing short scripts too. Her wish is to have a poetry anthology published. In the meantime, she’ll be trying out at performance style poetry venues to showcase new work in the coming months.</div>
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To find out more about MIW's Somme 100 Commemoration, please click <a href="http://manchesteririshwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2016/06/manchester-irish-writers-somme-100.html">here</a>.</div>
E.M. Powellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00565716658256251123noreply@blogger.com0