Elizabeth’s Vanishing Brogues: A Poem

By Kevin McMahon

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.

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.

This poem is about that photograph.

ELIZABETH'S VANISHING BROGUES

i.m. Elizabeth O’Farrell

The photograph of Elizabeth behind Pearse.
Twitter: National Museum of Ireland @NMIreland

A pair of tiny shoes – size four at most – 

Protruding from the hem of Pearse’s coat,

Was caught on film in the moment of defeat,

As Lizzie chose to step back in his shade.

A minor point of little weight you’d think,

But when the public tide flowed Padraig’s way

Such tiny flaws could humanise the myth,

So Lizzie’s brogues were airbrushed from the frame.

Elizabeth, I’m sure you couldn’t know

That you’d become a symbol of the shift

Of Proclamation pledges set aside

As Ireland was exchanging tyrannies.

So “civil liberties and rights for all”

And hopes of “cherishing” – was that the word? – 

“All children of the nation equally”,

Retreated for another hundred years

Behind the stole and veil, with downcast eyes

That failed to see the airbrushing of dreams.

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 'The Surrender'. You can find the section and access the whole exhibition here. 

~~~~~~~~~

Text © Kevin McMahon

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.

Proclaim the Dream: A Poem

By Rose Morris

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?

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'.

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'.

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.

PROCLAIM THE DREAM

Kilmainham Gaol. Dublin, Ireland
Photo credit: Carl Mikoy via Visualhunt.com / CC BY 2.0

Whether the dream was born in a herdsman’s shed 

Or died in a stone breakers’ yard it still lives on 

 Through rhyme and reason in many a heart, 

 A revised history, a contested legacy 

Some will look back and call it sublime

Some will say it was a glorious madness

The bittern will cry in the wild sky unheard 

And Pearce will have gone his way in sadness

Patrick Pearse
Image: Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Betty may have grown up cherishing her father’s lines 

Believing that he lies in shame with the foolish dead,

Where he fell at Ginchy, buried in some unknown grave

No honour, just blame, she a child of circumstance.

Thomas Kettle
Image: Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

The sixteen who died for Ireland’s freedom

Will be more remembered for their gallant part,

Fifteen face a firing squad in Kilmainham prison yard.

Roger Casement  to hang on the gallows in Pentonville

Roger Casement
NLI Flickr / No Known Copyright Restrictions

Tearful mothers, weeping wives, lamenting lovers 

Take away lines and letters and parting gifts 

As brave men say last farewells and give reasons,

Denying futility, claiming the supreme sacrifice

“Your life, Seán, your beautiful life.”

Mary, take these four buttons from my coat,

The only gift Mac Diarmada had left to give

Joseph, my little man, be a priest if you can.

Seán Mac Diarmada
NLI Flickr / No Known Copyright Restrictions

Counting the cost, McDonagh was ready to pay 

And ‘his song floated upwards on the wings of daring’.

Ceannt faced the firing squad after his confession

Content that Ireland had shown she was a nation

Thomas McDonagh
NLI Flickr /No Known Copyright Restrictions

Heuston died on a soap box, a youthful, calm and fearless face

Joseph Plunkett went to death husband to his darling Grace

Marriage vows exchanged in the prison chapel, bayonets fixed

To the witness words of the Enniskillens chanting prayers.

Beside crucifix carrying priests they walked at dawn

To where a wooden box and sand bags marked a place,

Where they stood to wait, blindfolded and hands bound, 

Before their writhing bodies fell on blood they jointly shed. 

Kilmainham Gaol
Image by: psyberartist (Kilmainham Gaol)/ Wikimedia Commons (CC BY 2.0)

‘Untie my hands, remove the blindfold’. 

Wishes of McBride, duty bound, the officer denied.

A white target square upon his breast, Con Colbert 

Moved it to a higher place, upon his heart to rest. 

Thomas Clarke entrusted to his wife a final message

To let the Irish people know that he and fellow-signatories 

Had struck the first successful blow for freedom

And  the next blow would win through’. He died happy.

Michael O'Hanrahan
NLI Flickr / No Known Copyright Restrictions

Hanrahan, Daly and Willie Pearce joined freely in the fight

And walked to death as brave as any that had gone before.

Men of vision, Sons of Ireland, faithful and they fought

And the dream lived on in the conscious heart of a nation.

Irish Sky
Image by: By Fabiog82 (Own work)Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 3.0)

~~~~~~~~~~

Text: © Rose Morris

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.

She co-founded the Manchester Irish Writers group with Alrene Hughes in 1994.

Her continued involvement and sharing within that group has greatly enhanced the development of her own writing. 

Her short stories, monologues and poetry have been included in the Manchester Irish Writers’ published collections; The End of the Rodden, The Retting Dam, Stone of the Heart, Drawing Breath and Changing Skies.

Rose wrote 'Proclaim the Dream' 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.

Independence Indifference: Thoughts on the Easter Rising

By Des Farry

© Des Farry

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.

Outside of school the only influences and tenuous links with the Rising were an old man who tried unsuccessfully to sell copies of The United Irishman or Inniu (‘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.

Our only contact with the actual events of the Easter Rising was when the film Mise Eire 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.

The first was called Peil 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.

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!!

Omagh was football country, soccer on Saturday night at The Showgrounds, Gaelic on Sunday at St. Enda’s.

So what did I take from the film session? It has to be the magnificent music from Mise Eire which has never been bettered.

Sculpture of the composer Seán Ó Riada in Cúil Aodha
Photo: Dlindod (Own work); licensed under CCA.

And about the content of the film?  Nothing at all, it was never mentioned again.

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.

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.

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 Mise Eire did not match up with the reality on the ground.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Text © Des Farry

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).

Proclamation for All: A Poem

By Bridie Breen

PROCLAMATION FOR ALL

The scroll of proclamation

rolls words off my tongue.

One hundred years on

Easter 1916 bleats from within

the Risen lamb that bled into veins

of the men and women who testified

to the call to rise, to stand united.

A furnace to fire eternal endurance

through the lilt of a freedom song

Each Irish man and woman

Every daughter and son felt the fist of change

It pounded across the land.

Demanding choices to be made 

lines to be drawn, sides to divide

and new history to form.

A mere century on from Grattan’s demise

the tears of many were shed

Emancipation the sought after prize

Innocents died in the fury

while the raw truth of the cause

forced the iron claw to unfurl

Dominance no longer appeased the masses.

The pulse of men whose hearts

 raced as their pens scribed

In a time when signatures sealed their fate

Markers of rebellion, so distinct

they were sought out

to be executed.

History coddled the deep 

mourning of generations

The road ahead transformed

 beyond belief.

Regimes of colonial past 

illuminated   by the rising dawn. 

Home ruled hands may not have grasped

the essence of Irish hearts

Their entrenched will to change

The question remains, as to where we’d be

if the blood of those in 1916 

Became names on a chalked board

Erased  out of our imaginings.

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

Text © Bridie Breen.

Images are in the Public Doman via Wikimedia Commons.

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.

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.

Manchester Irish Writers Somme 100 Commemoration.

By E.M. Powell

2016 marks the centenary of Ireland’s Easter Rising. The events of Easter 1916 marked a crucial turning point in Irish history and ultimately led to Irish independence.

The Government of Ireland has been leading a national and international programme of events to commemorate that important anniversary. In the words of the Embassy of Ireland, its aim has been

‘to remember 1916 and that pivotal period in our history, to reflect on the past 100 years, and to re-imagine our future.’

Manchester Irish Writers marked 1916's centenary in our own commemoration of writing, '1916: The Risen Word' in March of this year at the Irish World Heritage Centre. We have since published many of our pieces on our blog and will be doing so for the remainder of this year.

But while the Rising was indeed pivotal in Irish history, it was taking place against a background of one of history’s bloodiest and most horrific conflicts: the First World War, in which around 17 million soldiers and civilians were killed. That Ireland supplied 200,000 men to fight Britain's cause against Germany is often overlooked. Many lost their lives or were terribly wounded.

Much of that grievous loss and harm took place at the Battle of the Somme, in Northern France, in which Irishmen from both sides of the political divide fought.

The Battle of the Somme commenced on July 1 1916 and lasted until November. A major programme of commemorative events is planned here in the UK and abroad.

Manchester Irish Writers have produced our own commemoration of words to honour the Irishmen who fought and died at the Somme, as well as the enduring impact of their service on their own lives and those they left behind.

Our poems, prose and stories will be published here on our blog from Monday June 27 to Sunday July 3 2016. Links to each post will be on our Facebook Page, which you can find here.

We warmly invite you to join us in our tribute of remembrance and reflection. A link to each post will be added each day.

Monday June 27 2016: 'Somewhere in France' by Kathleen Handrick. A poem inspired by the life of an Oldham priest who went to the Somme.

Tuesday June 28 2016: 'Irish Soldier of the Somme' by Martha Ashwell. The story of the life of a much loved family friend.

Wednesday June 29 2016: 'Who Shall Divide Us' by Patrick Slevin. A poem about the Connaught Rangers, an Irish Infantry regiment of the British Army that fought at the Somme.

Thursday June 30 2016: 'Who were the Irish at the Somme?' by E.M. Powell. A post on the history of the Irishmen and women who were at the Somme.

Friday July 1 2016: 'July 1st 1916' by Bridie Breen. A poem to commemorate the centenary of the Battle of the Somme.

Saturday July 2 2016: 'Testimonies of Trauma: The Somme and other Battles in World War 1' by Rose Morris. A post that commemorates Irish writers both in World War I and those who wrote of it after.

Saturday July 2 2016: 'The Widow Quinn' by Kevin McMahon. A poem about the widows of the Irishmen who served and how, in parts of Ireland, they were shunned.

Sunday July 3 2016: 'More Like Rugby Than Football' by Des Farry. A post looking at brief moments of normality occurring in a terrible conflict which is set against a sports background and draws some comparisons between both.

Sunday July 3 2016: 'Lest We Forget' by Bridie Breen. Our final post is a poem that calls on us all remember those caught up the conflict.

We hope our writing has informed and given pause for reflection. Thank you for joining us in this important week of commemoration.

My Mother's Life in Manchester in 1916

By Barbara Aherne

As the Proclamation was read in Dublin, back here in Cheetham Hill in Manchester, my mother was almost 10 years old. Her family, the McHerrons had arrived from Belfast at the turn of the century and the Titanic disaster in 1912, with its Belfast connections, had been a significant event in the household. Now, in 1916 she was witnessing the effects of the First World War on her neighbourhood.

My mother as a girl outside St. Chad's church. 

In North Manchester there were rows of terraced houses around the Cheetham Hill road area. It was a diverse area but its residents were predominantly Jewish. Mother said she was often asked to go into a Jewish household to light the gas stove or the fire on Friday evening as she was passing, at the start of the Sabbath. Sabbath was from sunset Friday to sunset Saturday.

My mother’s family were parishioners in the parish of St. Chad. There was a large Catholic population with many Irish immigrants too but often the local English and Jewish neighbours would call my grandmother ‘the Scotch woman’ because of her strong Ulster accent. My uncle was head altar boy until his untimely death at the age of 18 in 1921, due to a burst appendix, causing acute peritonitis, for which there wasn’t any cure in those days.

My grandmother, Mary Doyle nee Wood.

Life then was obviously very different to present times. There were still horse drawn carts and carriages on the roads, and bicycles, if you were lucky enough to have one. Parents were also very strict with their children, manners were very important. Women and girls wore very long dresses and coats, almost down to their ankles and did not wear trousers, as it was considered to be unladylike. My mother used to help the housekeeper in St. Chad’s presbytery. If mother answered the door and said to the housekeeper, “There is a lady at the door,” the housekeeper would reply, “is she a lady or is she a woman?” as there was a difference in those days. Not every woman could be called a lady!

My Aunty May

Manchester then consisted of just the town centre and surrounding suburbs. It was very industrial with factories in places like Ancoats and Moss Side. Cheetham Hill was full of clothing factories with workers often working in dire conditions. There was a lot of poverty in the Manchester area and the working class families living in newer housing estates were quite privileged.

My mother was fortunate and learned to type and do shorthand and got employment with a mail order company as a secretary. She was seventeen and a half when her father died in 1924 and she became the main wage earner in the family.  Irish families entertained themselves with storytelling, music, song and dance often in the home but sometimes they congregated in the local public houses. They managed to survive in spite of the poor conditions in some families.

Female workers at the factory of Churchill Machine Tool Co Ltd,
Pendleton, Manchester, 1916

My mother’s father worked at the Victoria Hotel in Manchester, and as far as I know was never in the army. He would have been about thirty seven in 1914. My mother always said he had poor health due to a rheumatic heart. They could also tell which were his boots because of the shape. His joints and particularly his feet had become misshapen.

St. Chad's church today. 

Whilst the war events in France were discussed widely in the newspapers and locality, happenings in Dublin were very low key. The Manchester Evening News of April 26th 1916 states that the ‘Country is Tranquil outside Dublin’; that censorship was vital to prevent neutral countries like America from gaining a false impression of the importance of what had taken place and that the Pope recommended the people to remain quiet. The Irish situation at that time was not discussed within the family. If my mother asked questions my grandmother would say “it is none of your business.”

Although my mother took me to the Gaelic League in the 1940s to learn dancing and the Irish Language, my parents never discussed anything regarding the history or politics of Ireland and it is only in my later years that I have learned more about Irish history.

~~~~~~~~~~~~
Text & images © Barbara Aherne.
Image of Pendleton factory is Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Barbara Aherne has been a member of Manchester Irish Writers for many years. Born in the city in the 1940s, she has always lived in Manchester. Both of her parents were from Irish families. Her mother introduced her to Irish music and dancing at a young age. Barbara joined Seán Dempsey’s group of dancers when they moved into the Irish World Heritage Centre in the 1980s and has been a member ever since.

She is also a long-standing member of the Irish language group at St. Kentigern’s in Fallowfield. Her first piece of writing was done for Alan Keegan’s book “Irish Manchester.” She is interested in her family’s history and has recorded stories her mother told her from when she was a young girl.

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

Both Sides of the Divide: Poem

By Martha Ashwell

A great deal is written about the qualities and virtues of brave men and women who fight in wars but one side does not have a monopoly on such qualities. Both sides share the same talents and weaknesses. Both sides contain good and bad people. One individual is aimless, another finds purpose – winners and losers on both sides.

One person’s power means another person’s weakness or submission – in the end gain cannot be measured. Death and loss affects everyone. We all share the same human emotions, no matter what our cause. We can all understand our own point of view but what about the opposite point of view? We keep telling the stories but there comes a time when we need to consign history to the past and move forward.

I wrote this poem for us all to remember. To be proud. To give and accept forgiveness and be reconciled. 

BOTH SIDES OF THE DIVIDE

Poets and musicians,

Traitors and dreamers,

Saints and sinners,

All existed

On both sides of the divide.

Brave men and cowards,

Heroes and heroines,

Scoundrels and lords,

All were fighting

On both sides of the divide.

Aimlessness and purpose,

Glory and honour,

Victory and defeat,

All were present

On both sides of the divide.

Pride and shame,

Guilt and regret,

Love and hatred,

All were felt

On both sides of the divide.

Power and weakness,

Gain and loss,

Man and boy

Fought side by side

On both sides of the divide.

Widows and widowers,

Parents and children,

Sadness and tears

Flowed so bitterly

On both sides of the divide.

Now I see clearly, so clearly.

For healing time has intervened.

Our cause was noble, even divine

Everyone said so!

On our side of the divide.

Tell your children,

Speak of valour.

Hide the blood soaked bodies

Deep in the earth you love

On our side of the divide.

Honour your dead.

Uphold their memory.

Let freedom endure.

Gun shots reverberate

On our side of the divide.

Change the text of Revolution

To a softer sound.

Hearts and minds seek resolution

Hands at last unbound

On our side of the divide.

Put grief in a box and

Place it gently in the grave.

Accept what has passed.

Seek reconciliation

On our side of the divide

Forgive your enemies.

Forgive your brothers.

Move forward in accord.

Embrace true peace and gain true freedom

On ALL sides of the divide.

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

Martha Ashwell lives in Stockport and is a member of 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 http://marthaashwell.co.uk/home/

The text used in this post is © Martha Ashwell and the images are © E.M. Powell.

Martha wrote 'Both Sides of the Divide' 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.

Michael Rogers, Seanachai: Monologue Part II.

By Kathleen Handrick.

This is the second part of my fictional monologue spoken by Michael Rogers, who was a prisoner amongst the hundreds detained in Frongoch Internment Camp, Bala, North Wales after the 1916 Easter Rising. He was a contemporary of my grandfather, the two families living beside each other in North Mayo, a place steeped in Irish history, being the site of the French Landings in 1798.

Michael was described as one of the greatest Seanachai (storyteller) of his time by Eoin MacNeill. 

In the first part of the monologue, Michael talks to new arrivals in Frongoch and you can find that here. In this, the second part, he recites a story to them given to him as a child from an old neighbour, Mickey Forde, who witnessed the arrival of the French soldiers in 1798 at Kilcummin, in the parish.

Michael's Story of Lacken, North Mayo 1798

Look at ould Mickey Forde now. He must have been nearly eighty when I was but a child. He'd sit down by the back strand, waiting for the men to bring up the mackerel. Then we'd all go along to his cabin for a bit o’ kitchen and then, there'd be singing and dancing and storytelling... oh ’twas great sport we had.

Would you ever believe now that Mickey was a garsún in '98.  Just think on that a young boy...in ‘98!
Come.  Éist liom anois.

Listen now and I’ll tell ye the story just the way Mickey would be telling me when I was a youngster.

I was roaming above in the fields and I saw three strange ships anchored below in the bay. I ran like the hare to tell my father but he couldn't be found. There were neighbours and strangers running and roaring everywhere -crying out that the French had landed! We children were told to stay at home and not go wandering abroad.

Commemoration at Kilcummin
© Kathleen Handrick

But me, well now, I was an adventurous kind of lad, and a day or two later, I crept out to the crossroads. Suddenly, I heard a tremendous sound – like thunder -  yet the afternoon was a fine one. I scrambled down beneath a hedge and looked along the Foghill road. I saw, coming towards me over the rise, a great dark cloud. There were sparks of light flashing here and there and, as the vision came closer, I thought my ears would burst with the deafening sound.

'Twas the foreigners - marching to the beat of a fife and drum. They were led by a horseman wearing a long green coat and a tall fur hat, sitting upright and bowing his head to the one or two countrymen who were standing in the fields. He looked most fine.  As the soldiers passed me by, I saw it was the sun, striking the buttons on their jackets, that was causing the flashes of light to blind me.

Statue to commemorate the first French Soldier to die on Irish soil in 1798.
© Kathleen Handrick

I heard again the sound of another horse and as it came nearer, I saw it was a gig and in this gig, there was a man, like none I’d ever seen before.  He was dressed in the grandest style- a wide black hat upon his head and a splendid uniform with gold on his shoulders and jacket. There were even more soldiers marching behind him.

 Now ... I thought then, my mind had been affected by this happening, because there - to my astonishment– following all this were my own people – a great crowd of them talking and shouting excitedly.  They were carrying pikes and pitchforks –sticks and loys- and there- in the midst of them was my father!

St Cummin's Church
© Kathleen Handrick

I scurried back home to my mother and found her with the women kneeling in prayer at the holy well.  They stayed there, waiting for news ... on their knees praying - and all the time, they say, you could hear the uproar from Killala, above in Cashel.

Now my lads, Mickey would tell me that story often and I would be at his feet – just like you now - and I’d never tire of it.

Yes, his father did return - a beaten man but others ... alas, they never came back.

Poor Mickey, the Lord have mercy on him. He went to meet his maker in heaven, still longing for the day his father's dreams would come true.

Images & text of this post © Kathleen Handrick.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

Kathleen wrote ‘Michael Rogers’ 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.

Michael Rogers, Seanachai: Monologue Part I.

By Kathleen Handrick

My fictional piece is a monologue spoken by Michael Rogers, who was a prisoner amongst the hundreds detained in Frongoch Internment Camp, Bala, North Wales after the 1916 Easter Rising. He was a contemporary of my grandfather, the two families living beside each other in North Mayo, a place steeped in Irish history, being the site of the French Landings in 1798.

Michael was described as one of the greatest Seanachai (storyteller) of his time by Eoin MacNeill.
Douglas Hyde published Michael’s work in his collections of traditional Irish stories. He was an employee and close friend of Patrick Pearse and his friendship with Eamon De Valera continued until Michael’s death in 1936 in Rathfarnham.

In this first part of the monologue, Michael talks to new arrivals in Frongoch.

MICHEAL MAC RUAIDHRI - MICHAEL ROGERS

Cén chaio a bhfuil sibh? Suígí sois anois. Ah, maith go leor!

Now, that's no problem. I can use the English language if I need to but ... it’s not a thing I’d be given to boasting about!

So, how’re ye doing anyway, lads, and welcome to Frongoch! Were ye in the gang brought in from Stafford yesterday? 

Captured Irish soldiers in Stafford Gaol after the failed 1916 Easter Uprising.
Michael Collins marked with an 'x.’

Well the air and the scenery here’s better than in those English gaols, I'd say.

Some of the lads, now, say it puts them in mind of Wicklow or Galway even but that’s a bit o’ wishful thinking. It’s certainly not home anyways - you’ll be finding that out soon enough.

I wonder now, is that what they call English wit, do you think- to detain hundreds of Irishmen in a dry distillery! Huh, you'll see quite a few of 'em taking in a few good breaths down there ... but I fear they be disappointed. It's only the smell of the rats, they'd be getting. 

The guards? Well now, I suppose, they could be worse. Some are getting on a bit now – the fights gone out of them... but...just watch your man over there, though. He'll be after you to volunteer for France, especially if he knows you only have the English.

In fact lads - it's best if you just lay low for now. Don't get yourself noticed for the wrong things. There's plenty here to be filling your time - Irish, history, politics – even a bit o’ Latin –though I’d be thinking now, you’ll be well able at that already ! Of course, then there's football, running and plenty o' marching. 

I tell you now, you'll be amongst the finest specimens around Dublin when you leave here –fit and educated – what could be better!

Ah, were you down below earlier? Well, most evenings now I lead the rosary. Just listen out for the bell and come along.

Take it from me lads; it’s a great comfort – all those voices raised in prayer...

“Sé do bheatha, a Mhuire, atá lán de ghrásta ...”

and now, I'd say- it's a good sign to them - that we all stand together- we won't be broken. And some of them join in you know.

In fact, Sergeant Matthews even asked us to pray for his son - killed in France. That was no problem. He's a decent enough ould fella.

Me? Well, indeed, I am an old man. Old, I suppose, to be in here anyway amongst all you young fellas!

Now then, listen here and I'll tell ye. 

I was born and raised in Foghill, in the parish of Lacken, Mayo... 1860, by my reckoning. 

And – that’s right - you are correct – I am known as a story teller -Seanachai.

I didn’t learn that kind o’ thing at school though. Well, now, that place wasn’t for me at all.

No, I much preferred the company of the old folk around and ... I'd be thinking now, I learnt more that way. I would listen to their stories, their music – their way of talking and ... I would gather it all together and store it away – not only in my head but in my heart.

Oh, I heard all the ancient legends from them –of Crom Dubh and the blessed saint himself, and I've recited them often enough. I just love to be telling them and to be sure

I was winning many a medal for my efforts but I’m telling you now, my people taught me much more than those tales.

I tell ye, there were many stories of great sadness and hardship and you know, you don’t forget those kinds of things when you hear them, even though you're but a child.

They stay with you and form your thinking- they grow in you and you need to do something. You must!

But ... first, I had to earn my living. I became a gardener so – and, after a few jobs round about, I was offered work up in Dublin in the gardens in one of the big houses. That was ... more than twenty years ago.

I was in demand for my language - to give lessons you know and my love of stories and music introduced me to others who thought like me. Then I met Pádhraic - Patrick, may God be merciful to him.

Pádraig Pearse

He was no more than a boy then ... and he too loved the ancient stories and our native tongue.

He is –oh, I can't yet think of his cruel death, you know - he was, I mean – so passionate! He believed so much in educating our young– in Irish for Ireland - and I am so proud to be part of that school. I'm the only native speaker there you know! Fair play to them- Pádhraic and the others – they all learned it and they cherished it like me!

My job? Well, I’ve been the gardener and lodge keeper now since the school opened ... keeping a keen eye over the comings and goings. I teach a bit of horticulture- gardening - and I converse with the boys.

The lads from Connemara, now, ah they’re grand -they relish the lessons and the chat ... but the ones with only the English – hmm- they think I'm a hard task master. 

They need to learn though - like yourselves. It's the future – and - pay heed to my words, we will be free one day to speak and live our own ways. That's my prayer anyway and it will happen, I do believe.

Well, you know Pádhraic and me, we liked each other, right from the beginning and that’s why we got on so.

I suppose you could say, I've been like a father to him since his own father died. We have a certain – ‘trust’ of each other– did have a trust- there I go again – that was different to that of him and his brother, Willie.

Let me put it this way – there is more to me than a gardener and Pádhraic and the rest thought so too.

Ah yes, I was... I was there beside him at the Post Office. I wanted to stay but he sent me back to the school - to tidy things up and look after the women folk. It was a most distressing time and the... well ... they rounded me up too... and ... here I am!

Sin é.

That's enough for now of the ramblings of an old man.

Now my boys! Can you hear that fiddle? Are you singers? The lads have a few songs most nights. It passes the time before lights out. There's still time for you to go and join in.

Me? No I won't be bothering this evening. I'll just stay here and think about Pádhraic for a while. You know ... when he was in Kilmainham, he sent a farewell message to me and I pray it every night since.

Slán leat, a Mhicheál, Slán leat go deo.

Slán leat a Mhicheál, as Contae Mhaigh Eo!

Slán agus beannacht leat, a Phádhraic.

Part II of Michael's monologue, where he recites a story given to him as a child from an old neighbour who witnessed the arrival of the French soldiers in 1798 at Kilcummin, in the parish, wwas published on the MIW Blog on Sunday 5th June 2016. You can read it here. 

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

Image credits:

Prisoners at Stafford and Patrick Pearse are in the Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Map of Mayo is in the Public Domain, via The British Library. 

Michael Rogers plaque & text of this post are © Kathleen Handrick.

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.

Kathleen wrote ‘Michael Rogers’ 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.

Beauty Born: A Poem

By E.M. Powell

In Ireland's 1916 Easter Rising, 590 people were killed:  374 civilians, 116 British Soldiers, 77 insurgents and 23 members of the police forces. But these figures do not show that 40 were children aged 16 and under. Irish broadcaster and writer Joe Duffy has told their story in his moving book, 'Children of the Rising', and it was one of those accounts that inspired me to write this piece.

Little Sean Francis Foster was one of the first to lose his life in the Rising on Easter Monday morning. He was in his pram when he was shot, according to his death certificate, ‘through the head at the level of ears’. His mother, Katie, was with him. He was two years and ten months old. My poem, 'Beauty Born', is about that event.

BEAUTY BORN

This death carriage needs no plumed horse to turn heads to its passing,

with ripped hood and scorched cover that skewer every eye.

The cheerful sun stares down on shattered glass 

and splashed milk, and every running streak 

turns bile-sharp in its gaze. 

Smeared berry red, a tiny mouth yields only iron’s tang 

to pleading, screaming kisses. The silent wound 

that gapes, that glisters with afterbirth’s deep warmth, 

will never need a doubter’s hand to test 

a rapid resurrection. 

No close-worked wool or crochet shawl will halt its lasting cool.

Void-stained creases are washed and rinsed with soft cotton and water,

cut through with salted torrent from a womb’s unemptying font.

Then dried with care and covered clean and dry and stiff with starch

to aid a peaceful rest. 

Hands on beads beg for reprieve to the Virgin whose man-child 

visited but three days’ death before rising up again.

Yet only silence leaves the lowly beggar to hang on nails of grief,

while those who latched on to a dream, suckled hard with eager mouth,

stalk through time like Lazarus, 

and beauty born is gone. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~
Image credits:
'Children of the Rising' by Joe Duffy cover: © Central Press/Getty Images.
Pram: Livrustkammaren (The Royal Armoury) / Samuel Uhrdin / CC BY-SA via Wikimedia Commons. 
Celtic cross is © E.M. Powell.

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, THE LORD OF IRELAND, was published by Thomas & Mercer on April 5 2016. She is also a contributing editor to International Thriller Writers The Big Thrill magazine, blogs for & edits English Historical Fiction Authors, and reviews fiction & non-fiction for the Historical Novel Society and is part of the HNS social media team. Her website can be found at www.empowell.com.

Elaine wrote 'Beauty Born' 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.