By Domhnall de Barra
Looking back over the years, we have been blessed in this area by the amount of talented poets and writers that lived amongst us. Through their songs and verses they recorded for us all the happenings of the times. In earlier times it was the custom to make up songs in praise of local landlords. This was a kind of two way street because the landlords often gave financial support to ensure they got a good review. Wars and local battles were recorded as well as sporting successes and other notable events. Poets could be cruel as well and had no problem ridiculing those they didn’t like in verse. In later years emigration gave them plenty scope to highlight the loss and sorrow felt by those who had to stay behind while their families left for foreign shores to try and make a living. Unlike today, it took over 24 hours to get to England and weeks to get to America or Australia so some of those taking the ship were unlikely ever to be seen again. That is why they had the “American Wake”. Our parish was decimated during the first half of the last century due to the lack of employment. Not a house in the local townlands was spared. The poets and rhymers told us of those leaving their native homes and these songs were sung at rambling houses and gatherings and were especially popular with those who had emigrated. A song about home brought a tear to the eye of many a hardened navvy in the pubs of London, Birmingham and the likes. Love stories were also popular especially those about unrequited love. No occasion was spared and we now have a wealth of material that gives us a snap shot of life at a particular time in this area. There were poets in every townland. I could count five alone in Knocknaboul. Some were better than others but it is wrong to be critical of people who had only basic education and had the courage to take the pen in hand. But, times change and with the passing of Pat Brosnan, Paddy Faley and Dan Keane, in recent years we have seen the last of the poets. There aren’t any young people following in their footsteps, more’s the pity and we are the poorer for that. With the advent of social media, writing has changed completely. Pen and paper are gone and we communicate through facebook, Instagram etc. The art of writing is dying with abbreviations that are used in text messages. I was looking at a message on a youngster’s phone the other day and she had to explain much of the terminology to me. I suppose we can call it progress and it is just another way of communicating which is the really important thing but I miss the old writing that we learned at school. Each person had a distinctive style of handwriting, some more legible than others. My own writing was appalling. When I started in secondary school in Abbeyfeale, the head master, Jim Kelly, on looking at my first English essay said: “ I hope you have leanings towards the medical profession, Mr. Barry, because that is the only place your writing will make sense” Even today I have problems reading my own writing never mind expecting any one else to do so. Some people though had beautiful hands. I have examples of handwriting by the late Maighreád McGrath and, even when she was in the latter part of her life, it was beautiful to behold. Although perfectly legible, it had a flourish that an artist would be proud of. She wasn’t the only one to possess such qualities but alas I fear we will see it no more. Much of what we learned about grammar is now also obsolete. Our language is now influenced mainly by television and the worst of American TV in particular. It drives me around the bend when I hear our own presenters referring to everyone as “guys”. People say things like “I am so not going to do that” I could go on with more examples but I fear that I am a bit like King Canute trying to keep back the tide. Our rural accents are in decline. You wouldn’t know now if a person came from Connemara or Wexford, especially females. There is some light at the end of the tunnel however. Some young people are composing songs and while most of them are utter rubbish there are one or two who show great poetic ability. I am thinking of people like Ed Sheeran who have the ability to string a few verses together. We can only live in hope that the day of the poet is not gone completely and that they will develop through the modern media.
DEDICATED TO MOMS EVERYWHERE
WHILE WE’RE TOLD IN SONG AND STORY
OF PEOPLE OF RENOWN
BE THEY WRITERS, POETS OR CONGRESSMEN
OR KINGS WHO WEAR A CROWN
IT’S INSCRIBED THERE IN THE PAGES
THEIR NAMES AND WHERE THEY’RE FROM
BUT I BELIEVE THE UNSUNG HERO
IS THE PERSON KNOWN AS MOM
SHE’S THE ONE WE ALWAYS TURNED TO
WHENEVER THINGS WENT WRONG
THE GENTLE HAND THAT DRIED OUR TEARS
WHILE SHE HUMMED SOME SILLY SONG
SHE WAS ALWAYS THERE TO GREET US
AND HELP US ON OUR WAY
WITH THAT SPECIAL TOUCH
THAT MEANT SO MUCH
AND A GENTLE WORD TO SAY
AND THERE WERE TIMES WHEN
WE CAUSED YOU PAIN
AND TREATED YOU UNKIND
BUT ALL THE WHILE YOU’D SOFTLY SMILE
OH, HOW COULD WE BE SO BLIND
BUT YOU ARE THE ONE WE DO ADORE
AND LOVE LIKE WE COULD NO OTHER
WE THANK YOU GOD FOR GIVING US
SUCH A SPECIAL CARING MOTHER
Richard G. Moriarty
Poems Written by De Cantillon - A Bunch of Shamrocks
From, The Schools’ Collection Co. Kerry Killury .
Tis a bunch of bright green shamrocks
From that far off land of mine.
They grew on Kerry's emerald hills
With a beauty all Divine
They come laden with
From my own bright sunny south
And I've greeted them with raptures
With love kisses from my mouth.
I've pressed them and caressed them
All the while the glistening tears
Start unbidden from their fountains
While I think of bygone years.
They bring me thoughts of happy days
While my youth was in its prime
While life's skies were ever golden
With a glowing summer time.
When I gathered all the Shamrocks,
With my young friends bright and gay
In honour of old Ireland's feast
Our own blessed Patrick's day.
They remind me of my Kerry hills
In honour of old Ireland's feast
Our own blessed Patrick's Day
They reminded me of my Kerry hills
By Shannon's royal wave
For they grew beside sweet Ballyheigue
That holds my mother's grave
Mother an Irish grave is thine
With green shamrocks steeped in dew
God's Heaven be thine dear mother mine
Whom my young heart never knew
They remind me of old Causeway
With my hundreds of compeers
Of all their love and sterling aid
In the vanished by gone years.
Sister shamrock of my garland
Waft thy friend with triple tongue
All the greetings of an exile
All the love they leave unsung
Tell them where'ere their exiles roam
O'er hill or boundless prairie
They're to remain true to Irelands feast
To God and Mother Mary.
Who sent me o'er the water
This triple leaf of bard and chief
Of Erin's sons and daughters.
May you never know an Exiles woe
May shamrocks proudle wave
Above your Irish heart good friend
You will fill an Irish grave.
Bloom on my Irish shamrock
I've enhanced you in my song
Transplanted from old Shannon's side
To Hudson Bay along.
Your name and fame will never die
The Bard has done his part.
Bloom on my Irish Shamrocks
For you live in an Irish Heart.
James Clarance Mangan's Memorial
Oliver sheppard, 1909
James Clarence Mangan (1803 - 1849) Poet
Some regard Mangan as the greatest poet of the nineteenth centaury.
Mangan is a thread in the rich tapestry that is Dublin's literary history. His intemperance estranged him from human society and rendered him all but unemployable. There are many descriptions of his personal appearance, recording lean figure, blue cloak, witch’s hat and umbrella that he carried regardless of the weather.
He died of cholera.
The inset figure represents Róisín Dubh (The Black Rose), the last known work of Willie Pearse who was executed following the 1916 rising along with his brother Padraig Pearse.
beachcomber australia 7d
Oh dear! This article thinks it was May 22nd, a Saturday.
Read All About It ! ... trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/170908241
Here is what Dr Sigerson said (while this photo was taken!) -
""In the name of the National Literary Society of Ireland, I now unveil and confide to the custody of the Commissioners and to the care of the public this memorial of Clarence Mangan. Against the dark background of his life he raised a fabric of fair poetry, which shines bright as 'apples of gold amid foliage of silver'— the admiration of other lands, the glory of his country. In gratitude for his genius, in memory of his patriotism, in evidence that our generation is not forgetful of benefactors, and in the hope of inspiration to future times, we erect this monument. Here, in the city of his birth, in the land of his love, we erect it, bearing its beautiful symbol of our Ideal Erinn, whose desire and whose honour abide in the noble affection of an undivided nation. Thus, finally, do we faithfully carry out the injunction of 'The Preacher* of old: 'And now let us give praise to men of renown, our fathers in their generations.' " (Applause).
A RELATIVE’S RECOLLECTIONS OF THE POET.
Mr. Denis Plunkett, residing at Usher's Island, Dublin, as the nearest living relative of James Clarence Mangan, wrote correcting some statements with regard to the poet in a Dublin contemporary recently. Very few lovers of Mangan’s poetry were aware that he had relatives living in Dublin. Mr. Plunkett’ s mother was a first cousin of the poet. Mangan's mother was sister of a Co. Meath farmer named Smyth, who was Mr. Plunkett's maternal grandfather. Consequently the poet stood to Mr. Plunkett in the relationship of “first cousin once removed.” Mr. Plunkett was about sixteen, years of age at the poet's death, and consequently remembers Mangan well. At that time the Plunkett’s
resided in Copper Alley, and Mangan frequently visited the house. 'He had always a melancholy expression,' Mr. Plunkett told a press representative, 'and usually carried big bundles of paper;
under his coat. I remember him coming to our house one night, and almost with tears in his eyes, promising to reform and lead a new life, and then going out and shortly after becoming intoxicated. Just before his death he was lodging at a house in Bride-street. Father Meehan was curate of 'the- parish in which we lived, and I think that was –how we first came into touch with Mangan. My
father, mother, brother, and myself were at the funeral. Catherine Moore, one of his aunts, a married woman, is buried in the same grave- It was my father who buried him and put up the tombstone. Father Meehan requested my father to put no epitaph On the tombstone, saying that the name was 'enough for an ungrateful country.' Dr. Stokes came down to our house the day after
Mangan's death to get any papers he had left. The old woman Mangan lodged with in.
Bride-street told him that he burned all the papers he had. I remember as a small boy being at the wake of Mangan's mother, who died in- Peter-street. I think a 'good deal that
Mangan said about his sufferings was due to his morbid imagination; no doubt he was unhappy, but he made his misery for himself to a great extent.'
JOURNEY TO CROKER:
John Kiely is the manager
And some man is he
Without him Croke Park
We would not see
Many's the Quaid had
Number 1 on his back
With Nicky in goals
He launches the attack
Finn, Casey and English
Are young and they're bold
In the Full back line
They do untold
Richie the Rockie
Is powerful and strong
Throw him into full back
And he'll do no wrong
Declan Hannon is our
Tall centre back
He comes from Adare
He's the leader of the pack
So when distance is called for
Diarmuid Byrnes is your man
He'll throw them over the bar
Simply because he can
We've Tom and Dan
Brothers in arms
A great asset to the team
From the mighty Ahane
There's Cian and Darragh
In the centre of the park
Their work rate is immense
And their scoring is on the mark
With Will and Dempsey
To come into the mix
That gives Kiely a headache
With the team that he picks
With Hegarty and Hayes
In the half forward line
They'll score when you need them
And their tackling is sublime
There's Gillane in the corner
A threat with ball in hand
He'll take the frees
And drive them into the Davin stand
Seamus Flanagan of Feohanagh
A club near my own
On the edge of the square
He's like a King on his Throne
Mulcahy from Killmallock
A man with some Gears
When he gets on the ball
The whole county cheers
For the Limerick Senior Hurlers
A journey it has been
Many achievements have been earned
By our Heroes in green!
By Naomi Ryan. Tournafulla Gaa
The papers of Maurice Walsh were purchased
by the University of Limerick in 2000. Maurice Walsh was born in the townland of Ballydonoghue, near Lisselton, in the north of county Kerry on 21 April 1879, the eldest son and one of the ten children of, John Walsh and Elizabeth Buckley.
It is notable that his home area is near Listowel, which has produced two other important writers – Bryan McMahon and John B. Keane. John
Walsh (Maurice’s father) was a farmer and a devoted reader, and both he and Michael Dillon, a teacher at the local national school,
cultivated Maurice’s interest in books from an early age. After primary school, Walsh attended St. Michael’s College in Listowel, and in 1901 he joined the civil service, becoming a customs and excise officer. After brief postings in Ireland (beginning in Limerick), he was sent to Scotland, followed by Derby, and in 1906, back to Scotland again. That country had a profound influence on him. He was inspired both by the landscape of the Highlands and the people, as some of his literary works testify. Among the lifelong friends he made there was the novelist Neil Gunn (1891-1973). It was in the town of Dufftown in the Highlands that Walsh met Caroline Isabel Thomson Begg – his beloved ‘Toshon’- whom he married on 8 August 1908. At that point, he was serving at Kirbymoorside in Yorkshire, but soon was transferred back to Ireland where he remained until 1913. The next nine years were spent at Forres in the Highlands, from where, after independence, Walsh secured a transfer to the customs service of the new Irish Free State. He was prominent in the newly–established customs officers’ association, Comhaltas Cana, and contributed to its journal, Irisleabhar. He retired in 1933 and writing became his career.
Rambling house Knockanure
A Paddy Drury Story as remembered by Jerry Histon
When Paddy came home from his war work in Scotland after the 1914 1918 war, he had, of course, some money spared. After hitting Listowel he met two cronies and took them in for a few drinks. At the time drink was very scarce and it was suggested that certain publicans were not above eking out the supply of drink with materials that never saw the distillery. Anyway, Paddy asked the lady inside the bar for "three glasses of whiskey". When those were downed, Paddy called the woman again "Mrs, give us three more glasses of nearly!" The lady was puzzled"What nearly?" she asked. " nearly water, ma’am," Paddy shot at her, to her consternation.
A missioner, giving a retreat Moyvane, asked Paddy: "what is the difference between God's mother and your mother?" I don't know, but I do know there was an awful difference between their two sons!" Was Paddy's humble reply.
Paddy hired with a local farmer and one of the conditions was that he should be home for The rosary each night. The man of the house generally offered up the rosary for "myself and my four and no more!" One night the farmer asked Paddy to offer the rosary. Paddy had a few drinks on board and was, anyhow, getting tired of the farmer, So his offering was "I offered this rosary for myself and no more!"
<<<<<<<< An Important Correction re Drury Knockanure Satire >>>>>>>>
This correction is provided by a Knockanure local.
"The Rhyme about Knockanure was written by John Sullivan, father in law of Eamon Kelly.
Drury wrote about him.
In Listowel Town, there lives a clown,
who would sell his soul for porter,
Sullivan John is the man,
a dirty mean reporter."
More on Paddy Drury as remembered by Jerry Histon in the Shannonside Annual in the 1950s
Paddy was a great walker. I heard him say that he brought this from his mother who, he averred, once walked from Knockanure to Limerick and returned with a stone of yellow meal balanced on her head. This was during “the bad times”.
As I have said, without hearing Paddy tell the story, a lot of its local humour is lost. For instance, one day Paddy was seated in the snug of the public house in Listowel. The snug country pubs is usually called the office. A crony of Paddy's passed in on the way to the bar. "Is it there you are, Paddy". It is so and if you had minded your books like me you’d be in an office too.
Paddy and his friend Toss Aherna one-day making a grave for an old men from Knockanure who had all his long life been avaricious for land. Toss spaced out the site of the grave and said to Paddy "I suppose the usual 6' x 3, Paddy". "Ah" was Paddy's retort "he was always very fond of the land. Suppose we give it another foot."
When working for a farmer who had killed a boar to which the workmen were treated day after day for dinner, Paddy at last got exasperated and one-day for Grace said
May the Lord on high who rules the sky
look down upon us four,
and give this mate that we can ate,
and take away this boar!
Another Paddy Drury story as remembered by Jerry Histon in The Shannon Annual in the 1950s
Sometime before Christmas, Paddy dropped into Moyvane church and dropping on one knee ("rabbit shooting" as they call it) started his prayers. The local P.P. saw him, tapped him on the shoulder and said: "Get up, you fool and go and kneel properly." Paddy did so. Later, Paddy came to visit the Christmas crib. He suddenly jumped up, rushed out, found the parish priest and brought him to the crib. "Look! " Paddy cried, "you called me a fool for praying on one knee. Here's three more of them!" (Pointing to the three wise men, who are generally depicted in Cribs as kneeling on one knee).
At the election for county councillors, Paddy went into a Knockanure booth. There were five candidates. Paddy used to vote illiterate. When asked by the presiding officer for whom he wished to cast his number 1, 2 and so on, Paddy’s versified reply was:
A penny for Langan,
tuppence for Quade,
a three penny bit from a old friend Thade;
Fourpence for Shaughnessy, as you plainly see,
and fivepence for Woulfe, will make one and three.
During the 1914 1918 war, it was generally held that both Kaiser and King of England were relations (as they were). A local recruiting sergeant stopped Paddy and asked him to join the British Army and "do his bit". Paddy buttonholed the colour sergeant. "Listen," he said "my mother always told me that I should never interfere in family rows."
The parish priest and curate of Moyvane met Paddy one day as he was going to Moyvane, while they were walking along the road. The PP asked Paddy if he was going for "a small one". Paddy says he had hardly the price of it. The PP gave him half a crown. Paddy took it and said "God and Mary bless your reverence." The curate then handed Paddy a shilling. Pocketing it, Paddy said: "God bless your reverence." The PP was intrigued at the difference in the two salutations and asked him what was the difference. "One and six.” was Paddy's prompt reply.
Paddy died about 12 years ago, God rest him. He had a large and representative funeral. He was buried in the ruined church at Knockanure. So, though he did not "travel the nation" he found "the burying plantation that is the pride of them all" as he had himself written.
It is a sad commentary on the fickleness of human esteem to reflect that neither stick nor stone mark poor Paddy's last resting place.
By Jeremiah Histon
My name is Paddy Drury,
I come from the Bog Lane,
I work for Morgan Sheehy,
Drawing Porter from the train.
This is Paddy Drury's answer to the Black and Tans who accosted him in Listowel the end of 1920 to ask who he was. He escaped with nothing worse than a kick in the behind.
Paddy was a small stocky rubicund little man, with an old hat clamped on the back of his poll when I knew him. He was not at all unlike the statue of Padraig O Conaire now in Galway, but while he had a native wit he did not have OConaire’s aptitude for writing.
Paddy was born about 90 years ago in the Bog Lane, Knockanure, Co Kerry. I believe that all of the family were rhymers. He had three brothers, Michael (always referred to by the family as Ruckard), Bill and Jack (who was lame), they had one sister Mary. When Mary left the district, Ruckard when asked where she had gone, always answered she went in the police. Paddy had little if any, schooling. From an early age he worked for farmers around Listowel, Knockanure and Athea. During the 1914-18 war he went to Scotland to work in a factory on war work.
The stories told of and by Paddy are legion. Many of them do not sound so well in cold print, but when told by Paddy in his own inimitable style, they had a drollery and humour that was infectious. He was also liable at any time to put his thoughts into rough verse, but unfortunately most of his verses are gone into the Limbo of forgotten things and a new generation did not know Paddy and care less about him.
One of Paddy's best known effusions is his diatribe on gaping neighbours in Knockanure, who are looking over at their half- doors at him one morning as he walked along, sick and sorry after a good night the night before. Paddy broke out:
Knockanur, both mean and poor,
with its church without a steeple,
With ignorant boors, lookin’ over half-doors
Criticisin’and dacent people! (Note was composed by John Sullivan of Listowel, not Drury)
Again one day when the North Kerry Volunteers were lined up in The Square Listowel, Paddy noticed the 2 bellmen (or town criers) of Listowel looking at the parade. Paddy was moved to utter:
Brave Irish men you are lined up;
no doubt you are good Fenians;
you commanders too are out in view-
Mick Lane and Harry Sleeman !
Up The Kingdom
Written by Cormac O'Leary
Up the kingdom is the cry of every girl and boy,
To every Kerry heart both young and old;
To the kingdom we'll be true
and to dear old Ireland, too,
Up the kingdom, may God bless
the Green and Gold.
Sons and daughters of the Gael,
come and listen to my tale,
Of a kingdom that is held in high renown;
It's the place that they call Kerry,
Where there's not a care nor worry,
From the highest hilltop to the smallest town.
Up the kingdom is the cry of every girl and boy,
To every Kerry heart both young and old;
To the kingdom we'll be true
and to dear old Ireland, too,
Up the kingdom, may God bless
the Green and Gold.
There's a rumour up in heaven,
said a scholar of religion,
That a Kerry man composed
the great Lord's Prayer;
For when he wrote, Thy kingdom come,
His will has well been done,
There's Kerry men and women everywhere.
Up the kingdom is the cry of every girl and boy,
To every Kerry heart both young and old;
To the kingdom we'll be true
and to dear old Ireland, too,
Up the kingdom, may God bless
the Green and Gold.
Oh, they say that Sam Maguire
he is getting very tired,
Of his yearly trip from Dublin to Listowel;
If you're after football honour,
Well, the ones you have to conquer,
Will be fifteen men dressed up in Green and Gold.
Up the kingdom is the cry of every girl and boy,
To every Kerry heart both young and old;
To the kingdom we'll be true
and to dear old Ireland, too,
Up the kingdom, may God bless
the Green and Gold.
Up the kingdom is the cry of every girl and boy,
To every Kerry heart both young and old;
To the kingdom we'll be true
and to dear old Ireland, too,
Up the kingdom, may God bless
the Green and Gold.
Up the kingdom, may God bless
the Green and Gold.
POETRY: ” As Fr Daly read from his several collections, and his most recent one, God in Winter, it became obvious that the poet’s role, as one who stays on the disappearing tracks of God, maintains in view ‘this shimmering now’, this ‘unacknowledged loveliness’, this ‘upswell of Benevolence’ that surrounds us daily. Fr Daly is also a poet of angst, who penetrates the depth of personal grief and loneliness and the awful isolation of a child in the grips of autism. He captures ‘the rustle of divinity’ in instances bereft of any life-giving aura, at a time when our opinion formers in the media offer nothing but ‘our own emptiness’. Birds and animals, as much as people, young and old, grandparents, as much as grandnieces and nephews, all are subjects of his poetry. When Ann Concannon thanked him, she drew attention to his reference to ‘the cycles of our evolving’ luminously present in the simplest human being
Dearest Home On The Banks Of The Feale was written by local balladeer, Tade Gowran, and is performed here by Deirdre Scanlon and Muirean Nic Amhlaoibh on the TG4 programme "Port".
DEAREST HOME ON THE BANKS OF THE FEALE
Dearest home of my youth, oh how painful, it is to be parted from thee.
There are others who loved you as I do, and do seek for a home o`er the sea.
But no matter where e`er I may wander, my thoughts I will never conceal.
I will always think of you the fonder, dearest home on the Banks of the Feale.
On the cliff by the side of that river, a hundred feet over the strand,
They erected a number of tombstones, where the ruins of the Old Abbey stand.
Where oft our departed forefathers, from the Sassanach Foe had to steal,
To hear Holy Mass on a Sunday, in the churchyard at sweet Abbeyfeale.
And when I`m in the land of the stranger, away far away o`er the foam.
If in safety I wander, or danger, my thoughts will fly back to my home.
And when life`s weary journey is ended, I know that contented I`ll feel,
To be laid in the ruins of that Abbey, in the churchyard in sweet Abbeyfeale.
Funeral of Fr. Pat Moore in St. Mary’s, Asdee. (From Kerry Diocese site)
This morning three realities have converged to gather us together here in St. Mary’s Church, Asdee and they did so also yesterday evening at Fr. Pat’s wake; and those realities are faith, friendship and death. We are celebrating his Requiem Mass; that is a matter of faith. Our coming together from near and far is rooted in friendship. And the reason for our presence is because our friend has died. Of course one definite way of integrating Pat’s personality into proceedings, both sacred and profane, is by incorporating an element of mischief or intrigue or by creating some confusion! What other logical explanation could there possibly be for printing one Gospel text in the funeral booklet, and then proceeding to use an entirely different one! But there were in fact two very good reasons for choosing that Gospel passage: firstly, because it was the Gospel text for last Sunday, which turned out to be Fr. Pat’s last Sunday on this earth; had he been well enough to celebrate the Eucharist on that day, then it is the Gospel he would have used. Sunday – the day of resurrection, An Domhnach – the Lord’s day, the most important day of the entire week for a Christian. The 2nd reason for using the text from St. Luke that recounts the seven mile walk of the two disciples from Jerusalem to Emmaus, is precisely because the account of their experience along the way has echoes of the three realities that have brought us together: faith, friendship and death.
At many funerals there’s probably one question that’s often asked – it may not necessarily be expressed aloud, but it is certainly a thought in somebody’s mind on seeing another whose presence arouses curiosity; and the question is: How’s your man here? Or: What’s your wan’s connection? There are many connections here today. In my own case it dates back almost 44 years to September 1973 when, after the Intercert, Pat transferred from St. Michael’s College, Listowel to continue with his secondary education in St. Brendan’s, Killarney; then it was on to Maynooth for three years; and from there we went to the Irish College in Rome for four years. And I wish to acknowledge the presence of colleagues from other dioceses, along with contemporaries from our days in the St. Brendan’s, Maynooth and Rome. Whoever and whatever it was that created the connection and forged the friendship, that’s who we all are – friends who are connected by and through a friend; friends who recall the life of a friend – be it through school or college, or from the stage, be it through parish, or poetry or film or radio. It reminds me of an occasion when WB Yeats is reputed to have visited the Municipal Gallery in Dublin, wherein he found himself surrounded by the portraits of the great and the good of Irish social, cultural and political life; as was his want, he penned a poem for the occasion, which concluded with the words: “think where man’s glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends”.
As friends we come to offer sympathy and the support of our prayers to Fr. Pat’s family: to his brothers Michael & Diarmuid, and their wives Jacintha & Geraldine, to his niece and nephews, to his cousins in various generations, to his neighbours and to all who supported
him and cared for him during his illness. In our prayers we remember also his parents Mick and Peg – Mick’s 20th anniversary is this year, and Peg’s 3rd anniversary will be in September. We’re here therefore not to be mere spectators, as one might be at a football match or at a concert; we’re here to participate in the prayer of the Church, to pray for his forgiveness and healing, to pray for his happiness, and to pray for his eternal repose and his peace. We’re here because we believe that through the resurrection of our Divine Saviour, resurrection is also possible for us. Resurrection is not resuscitation; rather it is transfiguration. Words of the apostle Paul to the Philippians(3:21) seem apt: “from heaven comes the saviour we are awaiting for, the Lord Jesus Christ, and he will transfigure these wretched bodies of our into copies of his own glorious body”. That’s the faith of the Church, that’s the faith that gathers us together and that’s the faith from which and through which we derive consolation. But lest we forget, wherever there is faith, then frailty is never too far away; there will always be an angel of Satan to wrestle with. In this regard the inscription on the souvenir card of Fr. Pat’s ordination is instructive: “Lord, look not on our sins, but on the faith of your Church.”
There is grief and heartbreak at the death of our friend and colleague. Like the two disciples on the road to Emmaus who had lost their friend, our faces are also downcast. But now that Fr. Pat is dead, is that the end of everything? At this time of grief, let’s not lose sight of what priesthood is, and the purpose of Fr. Pat’s ministry and the ministry of all who serve the Church, in whatever capacity. The Gospel text gives us an insight into ministry when, walking with the one they supposed to be a stranger, it tells us that the two disciples “pressed him to stay with them”. Why? Because the conversation along the road had been riveting; because “the stranger” had opened the eyes of their minds and, as it were, had peeled away their blindness to help them understand who God is; thereby he had nourished them with his wisdom and he had nourished them in their search and in their emptiness and he had awakened in them a desire to seek more. But for that to happen, there had to be and there has to be an openness; otherwise the conversation would be as fruitless as ploughing a desert. Openness to God is a risk, as it may mean we will be disturbed in our comfort zone and we may be taken to places we would rather not go.
In the Easter issue of the catholic weekly, The Tablet, there was an article about the Jesuit Philosopher Frederick Copleston, with whose work Pat would have been acquainted. And when reflecting on the great minds of Copleston’s era, the author of the article concludes as follows: “The lesson of history … is that while change overtakes us, equally nothing is lost. The task for laity and Religious, therefore, is not to take comfort in nostalgic reverie or lament a lost age, but to re-engage, be it in different circumstances, in the intellectual and cultural work to which those earlier figures were committed and to which they contributed so much ad maiorem dei gloriam – (for the greater glory of God)”. That, in essence, captures what it means to be a priest, but not just to be a priest, but to be a Christian, and it sums up also the purpose of the Church in its many manifestations. Let everything be done for the greater glory of God.
When Fr. Pat visited your house, quite often he would not arrive alone but in the company of another, perhaps a complete stranger. If there were an advance telephone call, which was most unlikely, it would replicate the introduction at the kitchen door: “I’m calling in for a minute because there’s a wonderful person you must meet”. He could have done that not alone in Kerry, but just as easily in Dublin or Belfast or Galway or elsewhere, from where people have travelled today to be with us. And that’s why he could be enthralling and frustrating in equal in measure – and never more so than when you had enough food for one or two at suppertime and out of the blue, there are four – or more! He loved conversation and he revelled in company, perhaps even craved company. And God rest his mother Peg, he must have broken her heart arriving unannounced with yet another unexpected mouth to be fed. But since this latest episode of his illness emerged in February 2015, many have said it was a blessing that she was gone before him, because she had been through a lot of stress when Fr. Pat was ill 22 years ago. Prior to Peg’s death, he had been her carer for a considerable number of years; but in recent times the kindness of many to him, in several different ways, had been, in turn, Peg for him.
As we bid him farewell, we cherish the memories and the conversations. And the arguments! And as we reflect on his journey, in its many strands and complexities, one of the lessons we can learn is this: perhaps the less we are able to do – as distinct from the less we do, which is laziness – perhaps the less we are able to do, the more we are able to accomplish. And this gathering bears eloquent testimony to that truth. But above all we must not abandon or forget the purpose of his ministry and the ministry of all priests, but endeavour instead to keep that ministry alive. In many respects that will be the true measure and the true depth both of our friendship and of our faith, because it was the mutual search for Jesus Christ that was the source of our friendship, that gave meaning to our friendship and that is it’s ultimate conclusion. Otherwise, Fr. Pat will not just be gone, but he will also be forgotten, and his living and his suffering will have been in vain.
A Phadraig, a chara, tá súil agam go shroicfidh tú an Ríocht bheannaithe, agus ‘s mo dhócas go mbeimídne, agus gach éinne atá bailithe anseo inniu, araon le chéile arís in oileán na bParthas. Slán abhaile, agus suimhneas síoraí i gcomhluadar na hEaghlaise neamhaí. Amen.
Fr Gearoid Walsh Funeral of Fr. Pat Moore in St. Mary’s, Asdee – 4/05/’17
Pat Moore, priest, educator, author and friend was born in Asdee in Kerry in 1957. He was ordained a priest in 1982 and ministered for 33 years, till being diagnosed with oesophageal cancer in January 2015. Pat told his own story in his book Weathering A Storm which was published last year. The special connections Pat has made with so many people was demonstrated at the launch in Listowel. From St. Michael College Listowel, to St. Brendan’s College Killarney, to St Patrick’s College Maynooth to the Irish College in Rome, Pat made great friends and connected in a wonderful way with people. His first parish was Listowel and then following training in Mount Oliver he became Director of Primary Religious Ed. and Assistant Director (Diocesan) of Adult Religious Education in our diocese. In 1994 he became curate of Rathmore (Gneeveguilla) then Lixnaw (Irremore)1998 then 2004 parish priest of Duagh. Everywhere Pat ministered he gathered people and friends. Pat was central to the Horizons Radio Kerry programme and he worked on several sets of Just A Thought. Pat approached everything he did with creativity, a contagious energy and enthusiasm. He is sadly missed but we are all better for having known him.
The final poem in Pat’s Weathering A Storm 2016
AN OFFERING TO ALL
Because Illness brought me to a place where I spend much time alone I now feel myself getting more mindful.
I am doing something when I think I am doing nothing
As the mind empties of worries I listen and feel
I am in the moment
I accept what is – a creaking door
Watch a field of grass in the wind or rain
A friend, a stranger, a situation that comes to mind
I can hold it in love
I don’t have to rush to or towards
Time stands still though seconds tick
I don’t have to be anyone else, anywhere else.
Calmness, newness awe fills the mind
I am moving to the place of simplicity
Less is more
Gestures are equal to words
Strangers in my head are becoming familiar
Daft things I feel and think find a place
They are less obtrusive.
Prayer is the full stop at the end of the paragraph not only the first word.
From Listowel Connection
JOAN KENNELLY, Tralee.
On Sunday April 23 2017 Jerry Kennelly came to Ballybunion for WiM 2017 to talk about his extraordinary mother, Joan. His parents were very much a team, so talking about Joan meant also talking about Padraig. In fact the whole family from the moment they could walk and talk were drafted into the team and they all played a role in the success of Kerry's Eye and the family's photography business.
Joan came from fairly humble beginnings and she suffered the loss of both her parents early in life. She was a hard working resourceful lady and when she set her mind to a task, it got done.
After a spell in London and Spain she returned to her native Tralee and married Padraig Kennelly. Tragedy still dogged her with the loss of several babies through miscarriage but she soldiered on helping her husband build an empire.
In the days before internet and mobile phones, the Kennellys had an international business supplying photographs and stories to the world's media.
My favourite of Jerry's stories was the one about deGaulle's visit to Kerry.
Charles de Gaulle, the French president was a frequent visitor to Sneem, Co. Kerry a fact that is commemorated in a statue in the village.
When he resigned as president in 1969, de Gaulle decided to take a quiet holiday in Kerry. Security was tight and when he went to mass on Sunday journalists were forbidden to bring cameras into the church. Joan Kennelly always carried a little camera in her bag and when Charles deGaulle rose to pray in the European fashion at a point in the ceremony when the Irish congregation remained kneeling, she grabbed her chance and photographed him head and shoulders over all the other worshippers. The fuzzy image was like gold dust. It made its way into all the major European publications.
There were many more stories like this told on Sunday morning. The story of the Kennelly's of Ash Street deserves a documentary or even a full length film.
On your 40th Birthday 1999.
In September 1953, with no portfolios of interviews but with Gods grace and blessing, Dad and I together procured the most rewarding prestigious profession, that of starting with the first step up of the fourteen step ladder of life, eight female and six male steps. There is a saying “Life is not a bed of roses” there were a few thorns but don’t we all need a little pinch sometimes to urge us on.
While climbing that ladder, there was always joy, merriment, happiness and love galore.
We found you on the 7th step with the same joy as the previous and following ones. Each finding was a miracle, to stay awake at night waiting and listening for every breath was like watching the stars.
On the 13th step God decide that that little one was not for this world and in his mercy took him back again, that was around my 40th birthday. In March 1975 we reached the top step.
At the summet now for quite a few years we feel like shouting to the world with jubilation. Every one of you have made us proud, if we had to relive our lives we would have fourteen more if they were all like you lot.
The pinch of the thorn in your case was the Dad and I took you by the little 4 year old hands; you dressed in a little check suit and hat to match and walked you into hospital, Dad and I having tuberculosis and you having contacted it too. That sting didn’t last long because on our first visit you were so full of fun, jumping on the bed, almost hitting the ceiling with your newfound first boyfriend, we knew you were cured already and so cured us.
When household chores were a must you always played your part. Your favourite chore was keeping a blazing welcoming fire, how you managed it back ways I still can’t figure out. Of course you had a fascination for heat, you managed to get the Renault radiator to boil at Moll’s Gap and got your siblings to draw the water with their shoes. On a boat trip to England you did some stoking too or so I’m told. We could write a library full of books in praise our family, but who would read them. Everybody knows we are cute movers when it comes to choosing partners too.
By Pat Brosnan
Peaceful Athea of the fast flowing streams
Beautiful land of the exile’s dreams
Proud Athea of the ancient glories
Music, dances, songs and stories
Lovely Athea of field and fen
Mountain passes and hazel glen
Gentle Athea of the summer mist
And Autumn meadows with sunlight kissed
Scenic Athea of the woodland dell
With echo’s of bird-song and chapel bell
Rugged Athea of the heath-clad bogs
Home of the hare and the croaking frogs
Storied Athea with each verdant vale
Historic churchyard and river Gale
Homely Athea is the place we love
Its people, homesteads and skies above.
LAUNCH of Kay Caball book at Writers Week; Jimmy Moloney would officiate at this last event which just happened to be the launch of his aunt's book. Minister Deenihan then spoke and spoke on his work with the National Famine Commemoration Committee and in particular he mentioned his visit to Hyde Park Barracks in Sydney last August for the International Famine Commemoration, where the Earl Grey Girls were honoured and where he met a number of their descendants.
Congratulations and best wishes to Paul Collins, son of Pius and Margaret, and Audrey Galvin, daughter of Aiden and Kay, on their recent wedding at Our Lady of Fatima Church, Irremore, Listowel. Mass was celebrated by Fr. Maurice Brick. Bridesmaids were Ciara Cullen, Fiona Kitchen and Louise Galvin. Best man was Jamie Collins, Groomsmen were Tom Collins and Denis Collins. Flowergirls, Niamh Kitchen and Sarah Collins. First Reading: Sarah Moriarty, Second Reading: Amanda Harnett. Prayer of the Faithful readers: Jerry Hannon, Siobhán Naughton, Lizzy Turbinski, Paudie Galvin, Lorraine O’Mahony, Michael Hannon, Philip Collins. Offertory Gifts: Kay Galvin and Margaret Collins. Reflection: Helena Walsh. Music: The O’Neill sisters. A great day in glorious sunshine was had by all and celebrations began at The Malton Hotel in Killarney
Archdeacon Rowan lived at Belmont, in Ballyard, now a suburb of Tralee. Few of his papers survive, but his antiquarian pursuits immersed him in researches about the O’Connors of Iraghticonnor in North Kerry (Kerry Magazine, October 1855) and the MacCarthy Mór of Killarney, about whom he wrote extensively in Lake Lore and The Kerry Magazine. In politics Rowan was inextricably associated with Tralee’s old Corporation, becoming its last Provost before that body was abolished in 1840. But his Denny ancestry (his mother was a Denny, of Tralee Castle) conceals the fact that one of his ancestors was Jane O’Connor. She was the wife of Rev. Barry Denny, and they became the parents of Sir Barry Denny, created first Baronet in 1782. Sir Barry’s daughter married Rowan. Here is A. B. Rowan’s address to the RIA, Monday, November 8, 1858, PRIA vol. 7, 1858-1861.
TOUR GUIDE TALKS in TRALEE.
Wednesday 9 November, 2011. Dr Robert (Bob) FitzSimons’s talk was on Dr Francis Crumpe and the Infirmary of Tralee. Francis Crumpe served from 1820 to 1870 as Doctor of the Infirmary (the new Infirmary was built 1810-14 on the site of the old Infirmary, dating from 1763). His fifty year career succeeded that of his father Dr William Crumpe who served in the old and new Infirmaries.
The prison/hospital reformer John Howard visited in 1788 and found the old Infirmary in a “ruinous state”, and Judge Day in 1812 wrote: “pull down that disgraceful ruin”.
Francis Crumpe lived at 16 Denny Street. He performed many experiments: saline drip in the vein of a patient during the cholera (patient made immediate recovery but died); pioneering use of ether to perform surgeries; there were others. At the jail conditions were terrible in the decades before the discoveries of Pasteur about infection.
“Staggering Bob” was a piece of pork which the butchers at Tralee Shambles would suspend in the running water of the Big River until it was bleached white – before sale for cooking; they little knew during the cholera epidemic of 1848-9 what a perfect conductor of the disease the meat was.
Wednesday 2 November 2011. John Donnelly spoke on the Barracks at Ballymullen, which was constructed around 1812; the Barracks ended the system of billeting of soldiers on the town population, at the same time providing a ready force for the current and infamous insurrection among the farmers of North Kerry.
Wednesday 26 October 2011. Gerald O’Carroll spoke on the Dennys of Tralee Castle. The Castle was finally demolished in 1826 and Denny Street constructed. The ruins of the Dominican Abbey were removed at the same time. The date of the Abbey’s foundation is given as 1243, though it may have been later. The first Denny is associated with the events at Dun an Oir, November 1580, where many of the Spanish-Italian force were massacred and the leaders sent as prisoners to London and later ransomed.
You have travelled too fast over false ground;
Now your soul has come to take you back.
Take refuge in your senses, open up
To all the small miracles you rushed through.
Become inclined to watch the way of rain
When it falls slow and free.
Imitate the habit of twilight,
Taking time to open the well of colour
That fostered the brightness of day.
Draw alongside the silence of stone
Until its calmness can claim you.
The Sacred Heart Review > 16 February 1918
ACTIVE IN ALL SPHERES.
Catholic Irish and English Writers Winning Laurels.
May Bateman, novelist, journalist and war correspondent, contributes t". a recent number of "Catholic Monthly Letters," a publication is- < sued by the Catholic British Information Society and of which the editor is Father C. C Martindale, S. J., of London, an interesting article entitled "British Catholic Writers and Artists."
CATHOLIC SUMMER SCHOOL.
The Sacred Heart Review > 23 July 1898
On Tuesday, July 12,1898 the second day of the Summer School, under the head of " Round Table Talks," the Rev. Thomas P. McLoughlin gave an entertaining and instructive address on"The folk songs of Italy."
The Hurler’s Prayer
(courtesy of Shannon parish)
Grant me, O Lord, a Hurler’s skill
With strength of arm and speed of limb,
A cunning eye for the flying ball,
And luck to catch it where ‘ere it fall,
May my stroke be steady, my aim be true,
My actions manly, my misses few,
And no matter what way the game may go,
May I rest in friendship with every foe,
When the final whistle for me is blown,
And I stand at last at God’s judgement throne,
May the Great Referee when He calls my name,
Say: “ You hurled like a man, and you
played the game!”
Dan Keane Poem
Reflections on a Poetry Reading Event 1988
When beauty’s soul breeds beauty’s thought
Then beauty’s words by deeds are wrought,
And thus is beauty’s mind relieved
Of gifts that beauty’s soul conceived.
We witness here no vain pretence
Here we find youth and innocence
Expressing in each natural sound
The beauties they perceived all round.
Just as the youth of year the spring
Wakes songs that fall from feathered wing
And sleeping buds their robed unfold
In hues of blue, green, pink and gold
Let all take courage from their birth,
They spring from darkness of the earth.
In times of trial then have no fear
In youth and age God still is near.
25th 6th 1983
Ireland my Motherland; Centuries have seen
The green robe of they glory
Freckled as if fuschia flowers
Fell freely on thy fair fields,
It was the red blood of fair children
Your children; cherishing your holy cause
And forfeiting fair young lives,
That you – their Motherland might live.
Ireland my Motherland; Centuries of pain
Have seen thy green grow greener
As the magic mysticism of thy music
Re-animated the slumbering soul
Clasping the cherished culture
And harbouring the holy heritage
That font and fair and fierce flows on
In sweet silver streems of swelling song.
Ireland my Motherland; Centuries to come
Shall see your children still
Proud of your great inheritance
From the clouded sunlit past
And in the rich rivers of rolling rhythm
Behold the bright beauty and bless the brave hearts
That sheltered every soul stirring strand
For love of you my Motherland.
ERIN! THE TEAR AND SMILE IN THINE EYES
Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies,
Shining through sorrow's stream,
Saddening through pleasure's beam,
Thy suns with doubtful gleam,
Weep while they rise.
Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,
Till, like the rainbow's light,
Thy various tints unite,
And form in heaven's sight
One arch of peace!
Tribute from Pat Brosnan
Death of Dan Keane
The death of Dan (Monie) Keane of Coilagurteen, Moyvane which occurred during the week at age 92 has brought to an end the long and colourful life of this unique North Kerry man. It is no exaggeration to state that Dan Keane was a legend in his lifetime. He was a versatile writer, a people’s poet in the best sense of the word and just like his great friend late Paddy Faley of Glenbawn who lived to be around the same age a brilliant and humorous storyteller who very often composed his own great yarns which brought such a lot of laughs and humour to his many audiences down through the years, not alone in his native North Kerry and nearby West Limerick but all over the country where Dan had friends and admirers wherever he visited. As well as all these talents he was also a ballad maker of high renown, the holder of several County, Munster and All-Ireland titles in newly composed ballads.
My own acquaintance with Dan Keane goes back to the ‘40’s and ‘50’s at one time we both worked as stokers with Kerry County Council machinery stone crushers and steamrollers and he also worked on farms in Knocknagoshel area in his younger days. It was around this time that he had a talent for composing verses. Then of course we both worked with the New Ireland Assurance Company and the Irish National Insurance, Dan continued in the insurance business all during his working life until his retirement, while more of us launched into other fields. During all these many years Dan and myself remained good friends as we had so many shared interests and this friendship extended as well to the many times we were in competition with each other in poetry and new ballads. It was also Dan who introduced me to adjudicate in various competitions, Féile Cheoil, Readorí , Community Games talent competitions, Listowel Harvest Festival talent competition, Wrenboy and other poetry and Ballad competitions. For several years we adjudicated the Listowel Writers week’s Children’s poetry competition together which had been submitted those many years ago by various schools in North Kerry and West Limerick. This always meant for me a day with Dan at his home in Coilagurteen going through the children’s poems and passing our judgement on them, sometimes a difficult task enough but always a pleasant one. On one occasion Dan came to our house to do the adjudications. We travelled to several different parts of the country together through the years whether it was a Fleadh Cheoil, a poetry recital, a bus tour guide with visitors from another country or other events. In all of these travels and outings with Dan Keane he was always great company and his wit and humour shone out through every phase of his life. He was associated with so many organisations in the life of North Kerry from Listowel Writers Week , Pioneer activities of which he was a lifelong member, to local and national radio and so many other things that were so many that it would be difficult to recount. He also wrote a number of books. One of his own poems “The healthier People” and two others “The Place names of North Kerry Town lands” and another “The Town lands of West Limerick”. It was only a short time before Christmas that his final book was launched at the Heritage Centre, Listowel “A Kerryman’s Book of Limericks” which was Dan’s final contribution to the literature of North Kerry. There have been many great writers, poets, ballad makers and storytellers throughout North Kerry and West Limerick in our time and even long before our time but Dan Keane will certainly be remembered as one of the greatest of them all – a man who had a mind of his own and was not carried away or influenced by modern trends. A man who was a true patriot in every best sense of the word, a man who never compromised on his basic nationalist and republican ideas of a new and better Ireland which was brought to light so well in his poems and ballads. Even in his room in the local Nursing Home where he was cared for in his final years Dan still kept up his writing until the end. Dan Keane was a person whom it was good to know and whom some of us were proud to call our friend.
There was a huge attendance at the removal from Lyons Funeral Home, Derry, Listowel on Friday evening to Moyvane Parish Church and a big congregation at the Requiem Mass on Saturday at which many tributes were paid to Dan. As well as the beautiful Mass and religious ceremony a selection of Dan’s own composed ballads were sung during the Mass and some of his poetry also recited. A total of nine priests from various parts of North Kerry celebrated the Mass. Again at Ardnavoher Cemetery Gale Bridge six musicians played a selection of traditional music and other songs of Dan’s composition were sung as he was laid to rest.
Sympathy is extended to his sons, daughters-in-law, grandsons, granddaughters, nephews, nieces and his other relatives. ‘Ar dheis Dé go raibh a Anam Dilis’.
Dan Keane was working with Jim Browne of Knocknagoshel in the 1940s when by accident he found that he was able to rhyme, one of his first poem was about a dance at Doneen Jack Brosnan’s in Knocknagohel. It was called Sean Donal’s Neat Abode. Another poem he wrote in praise of tea, was called Inse Ban Tae and went like this, Don’t talk about Porter or whisky or beer , they are bad for your health and entirely two dear. Dan was Chairman of Writers Week from 1988 to 1990.
Poem by Dan Keane
INSE BÁN TAÉ - Don't talk about Porter or whiskey or beer, They are bad for your health and entirely too dear,
But if you want a drink, that will cheer you all day, Get a fine wholesome mug of Inse Bán taé
It is made in the houses and made in the Hall, I know from experience it's the finest of all,
What's more there's no charge, it's a pure give away, It's a life saving gift, the Inse Bán Taé.
You get sugar and milk, you can add to your taste, And buns that would make you bulge out at the waist, They serve it in china, that you don't throw away, You'll be treated in style to the Inse Bán
Tae. A man from the Pound went to Heaven long 'go, Met a yank, asking Peter if he'd have a throw, Peter roared out, 'throw that whiskey away, And let in the man with the Inse Bán Táe.
Now the man was let in, and the Angles they sang, And all around heaven, the good news it rang, They danced and they sang, all night and all day, There's a corner of Heaven, called Inse Bán Táe.
The justice of God is an issue sublime,
And He'll weigh by the measure He gave.
The trouble, the trials and the crosses of life,
Are, but jewels on the hearts of the brave.
There's a sunbeam to steal through each cloud overhead,
There was never a storm to last,
There are gems of remembrance to garland the soul,
Shining out of the days that are past.
There's a flower for each weed, there's a smile for each tear,
There is rapture for grief to atone.
So pour me the joy that I drank as a boy,
From your hornpipe, Mickey Malone.
What could I say about Peggy?
Nothing but the truth.
I loved her songs and her singing
I heard away back in my youth.
Her songs were food to my Soul
Her voice was a thrill to my ear.
I loved her then as a child,
It was mutual and sincere.
I love her today as a friend
And the memories shared together.
Her songs still lift my soul
Like the lark warbling o'er the heather.
What can I say about Peggy?
Thanks for the joy she has given.
Blest be the dawn of our friendship
When Peggy was only seven. ----
When Georgie Sandes went down to hell the Devil got the thongs,
Saying a long time I have waited to roast this tyrant Sandes.
The poor he hunted from their beds, the rich he robbed and broke,
And now he'll be tormented with plenty of fire and smoke
by Dan Keane
No more he'll drive his motor car in country or in town,
They dug a grave in Murhur Church and laid poor Willie down.
He trod the earth for eighty years till called to Heaven's bar
And no more we'll hear the hooter of Willie's motor car.
This car it was a model ingeniously designed,
Its mechanism perfect and controlled by Willie's mind.
In every modern aspect it was car complete
And its travelling speed was governed by the power on Willie's feet.
If perchance the gears would stick, then Willie's sheer delight
Was a gentle push from rearward to get the gear stick right.
But when delivering telegrams he was not slow to state
That for motor car manoeuvring he'd need a wider gate.
The car was ever free from rust, the paint was always new
And the steering kept responding to Willie's point of view.
Its parking rights were legalised immune to all offence
And its lamplight was a beacon from the soul of innocence.
A mechanical chameleon that changed to suit the scene,
It was a hearse, a hackney car or a private limousine;
Poor Willie he was likewise in professional regard -
An undertaker, parish clerk or at times a civic guard.
Still the zenith of his pleasure was before a crowd to stand
To perform his parish duties with bell rope in his hand.
His spirit stirred to beating bronze as solemn swells would rise
And his mirth was manifested in his wild expressive eyes.
He never new hire purchase, no tax was ever owed,
It was insured by statute of every traffic code;
It was a very special car that none could comprehend
For 'twas shaped in Willie's garage in the land of let's pretend.
So Willie drove for many a day on country road and street
With his own peculiar friendship for all that he would meet;
His stainless soul and happy heart kept Heaven's gates ajar -
I feel I hear from Paradise the sound of Willie's car.
The Raid on Knockanure
by Willie Finucane, Knockanure
Have you ever been to a pub me lads or have you felt that way?
'Tis nice to have a pint or two to pass the time of day.
Oh if at night 'tis sure delight you bid your thirst to cure,
But watch the clock or you'll see the dock like the night in Knockanure.
Now the last few hours of sixty-seven were fleeing mighty fast,
As we did join in Auld Lang Syne though we hadn't that much cash.
Our heads were light, our spirits high, the fun was fresh and pure,
Oh little we thought that we were sought at Flynn's in Knockanure.
Now the alarm went at 10 o'clock, a warning time you see,
The barman shouted at the door "Ten minutes more of glee".
But as the clock ticked on me boys 'twas twenty past for sure,
When through some lane came Garda Kane to Flynn's of Knockanure.
"Account for those men, the time is past," his voice came through the door
We stood like ghosts beside our host our feet stuck to the floor.
Then nice and mute Flynn spoke the truth, of that you can be sure,
"But for the song they would be gone and left old Knockanure".
But 'twas all in vain, this mighty Kane was having the last word,
With pencil and with notebook out he started chewing the curd,
We gave our names quite willingly as we "had no other cure,
And if song is crime we'll pay the fine in the Valley of Knockanure.
Oh a Happy New Year to all the police from here to Templemore,
To your Sergeants and inspectors and all ranks of your Peaceful Corps;
May you banish all crime to the end of time and keep us well secure,
But we'll never forget being caught in the net at Flynn's of Knockanure.
Oh here's to all Kanes a long living name from the very beginning of time,
You are linked with the death of Abel, you started that capital crime.
If that Guard gets a stripe I hope 'tis no gripe and the doctor may him cure,
As he wont be paid till a Sergeant he's made for his raid on Knockanure.
And should he return again to the Cross and we meet him face to face,
As man to man we'll sing this song as it is no disgrace,
With a Cead Mile Failte we'll welcome him and we hope he don't act poor,
For if he'd not come no song would be sung of his raid on Knockanure.
May he rise in bars and stripes, may he wed a charming wife,
All Heaven's blessings sure may he endure,
Now there's peace talks with Saigon, they're still bombing Vietnam,
But we're hoping for a truce in Knockanure.
Now in Tarbert Court a nice resort Maguire threw in the ball,
Guard Kane was first to break away he kicked it with the fall.
But Flavin Mick he done the trick with a daring save for sure,
And when Reilly caught he drove it back, 'twas cheers for Knockanure,
His clearance went to Flynn me lads, the Cordal man is tall,
He fielded high above their heads and soloed with the ball,
From thirty five 'twas a mighty drive, it ripped the net for sure,
Oh 'twas pot luck as the cobwebs shook in the Valleys of Knockanure.
Now Garda Kane will have to train to get to senior file,
He hasn't the dash of Mick Dwyer nor Sergeant Sheehy's style.
Nor Acton's swerve nor Truhy's nerve that touched the rich and poor,
Oh the like's of that team will never be seen in the Valleys of Knockanure.
Oh to all you young Guards I give my regards, may I coach you with this rhyme
If you learn to sell the dummy your scores will come in time;
If the going is rough just play it tough and take things mighty cool,
And we'll call it a draw within the law in the valleys of Knockanure.
Oh to all who were fined I can't leave behind, may you get a lifelong span,
Till your whiskers and beard grow down to your heels and be tied with a Black Velvet Band,
May a Bill in the fall be rushed through the Dail ending the clocks for sure,
And we'll sing this score when time is no more in the Valleys of Knockanure.
THE BOYS OF CLOUNMACON
Here's to the boys of Clounmacon,
The boys from the hilltop and vale,
The boys from the crag and the lowlands,
The boys from the banks of the Gale.
They followed the footsteps of their fathers,
Their slogans would never give up,
And on the banks of Shannon near Tarbert,
They won the North Kerry Cup.
Now this team is composed of all workers,
And roughing they all can withstand,
There's no students or bankers amongst them,
They all work on the skin of the land.
By their deeds on the field they are known by,
If you forget them, ill bring to your mind,
When they won the jerseys in Bally,
Clounmacon they came from behind.
They came from behind with a vengeance,
Brave Ballydonoghue had to yield,
There was nothing to stop that fierce onslaught,
As Clounmacon they swept up the field.
By two goals of six points they were led by,
Which the scoreboard at half time did show,
But when the three quarter marker was reached by,
Clounmacon were out on their own.
ON the sandhills we defeated brave Faha,
You could hear all the sideliners roar,
We're on for the final in Tarbert,
Way down by the Shannon's green shore.
We had brave captain Joe from old Dromin,
And O'Connell from Ballygalogue,
Though the dice it was loaded against him,
He kept Coleman right out in the cold.
Monty Leahy he dumbfounded Tarbert,
While Mike Donal his frees were a treat,
Not forgetting the Garda Siochana,
And Pat Kerins who sealed their defeat.
Bobby Buckley was there from Lower Derry,
Mikie Lyons was as fleet as a hound,
And Son Halpin that nippy young forward,
Used to leap on the ball with a bound.
The three brother Scanlons were there, sir,
That's Anthony, Martin and Joe,
You could send Martin right out to Korea, sir,
And he'd ne'er turned his back on the foe.
Not a ball went through O'Mahony,
Which the scoreboard at the finish did show,
While the two brother Egans were brilliant,
And Tom Costello stood out on his own.
The cup it was filled down in Tarbert,
And victor and vanquished were there,
And they all got a swig from her bosom,
Where they came from the boys didn't care.
'Twas brought to Listowel in procession,
And filled there again and again,
Now is rests with captain Joe Shanahan,
At the top of old Dromin Hill.
SEAN Lynch of Moyvane
born 1978, County Kerry, Ireland
Study of Fine Art, HfBK Stadelschule, Frankfurt am Main, 2005-2007
MA History of Art and Design, University of Limerick, 2002-2004
BA Sculpture, Limerick School of Art and Design, 1997-2001
Solo exhibitions and projects (selection)
2012 Kevin Kavanagh Gallery, Dublin
Catalyst Arts, Belfast
2011 The Dock, Carrick-on-Shannon, Leitrim
Me Jewel and Darlin', Dublin
2010 Crawford Art Gallery, Cork
Kevin Kavanagh Gallery, Dublin
Project Space, Frankfurter Kunstverein, Frankfurt
2008 Context Gallery, Derry
Gallery of Photography, Dublin
Process Room, Irish Museum of Modern Art, Dublin
Heaven's Full, London
National Sculpture Factory, Cork
Galerie Von Doering, Schwabisch Hall
2007 Limerick City Gallery of Art, Limerick
Galway Arts Centre, Galway
2006 Ritter & Staiff, Frankfurt am Main
Group exhibitions (selection)
2012 The Hellfire Club, Askeaton Contemporary Arts, Limerick
2011 Twenty, Irish Museum of Modern Art, Dublin
When Flanders Failed, Royal Hibernian Academy, Dublin
Wake Amusements, Ben Maltz Gallery, Los Angeles
Volta 7, Basel, w/Kevin Kavanagh Gallery
The Second Act, de Brakke Grond, Amsterdam
Microstoria, Talbot Rice Gallery, Edinburgh
Convergences: Literary Art Exhibitions, Golden Thread Gallery, Belfast / Limerick City Gallery of Art
Room Outside, Kevin Kavanagh Gallery, Dublin
Human / Nature, Farmleigh Gallery, Dublin
2010 Never The Same River (Possible Futures, Probable Pasts), Camden Arts Centre, London
Lost and Found, neugerriemschneider, Berlin
It Happened That, St Paul St Gallery, Auckland
Invisible, Original Print Gallery, Dublin
Sinopale 3, Third Sinop Biennial, Sinop, Turkey
The Swimming Naked Prophecy, Mermaid Arts Centre, Bray, and touring
Surplus Value, Occupy Space, Limerick
Irish Pavilion, Expo 2010 Shanghai
Shop If You Can, Look If You Want, Temple Bar, Dublin
e-flux video rental, Fondazione Giuliani per l'arte contemporanea, Rome
2009 Autre Measures, Centre Photographique d’Ile-de-France, Paris
ev+a, Limerick City Gallery of Art
House Warming, Rua, South Dublin Arts Centre, Dublin
Above the Fold, Kevin Kavanagh Gallery, Dublin
It's not for reading. It's for making, FormContent, London
Point Ligne Plan (screening), La Femis, Paris
Noughties but Nice: 21st Century Irish Art, Touring exhibition: Limerick City Gallery of Art /
Letterkenny Regional Cultural Centre / Solstice Arts Centre, Navan / VISUAL, Carlow
2008 10,000 to 50, Irish Museum of Modern Art, Dublin
Ein Platz, Platz Der Vereinten Nationen, Berlin
30 Contemporary Collection, Gallery of Photography, Dublin
Gedanken zur Revolution, Universal Cube, Leipzig
Collection Rausch (screening), KW Institute for Contemporary Art, Berlin
The State of Play (screening), Project Arts Centre, Dublin
2007 Dangling Man, Office Baroque, Antwerp
Dumbo Arts Festival, New York
Lucas Cronach Preis, Kronach, Germany
Overtake: Reinterpretation of Modern Art, Lewis Glucksman Gallery, Cork
Pilot, Venice Biennale / Chelsea College of Art and Design, London
Hillig / Horrigan / Lynch, Q Kunstakademiets Udstilingssted, Copenhagen
Art from a Rucksack, CAP, Kobe, Japan
Ok. Quoi?! Faucet Media Arts Centre, Brunswick, Canada
The Opening Show, Oeen Group, Copenhagen
2006 ev+a, Limerick
Festival Junge Talente, Messen Offenbach
Welcome to the Neighbourhood, Askeaton Contemporary Arts, Limerick
Premio Fondazione Arnaldo Pomodoro, Milan
2005 Kilkenny Arts Festival, Kilkenny
Damaged Collateral, Context Galleries, Derry
The Happiest Country in the World, Oireachtas Show, Dublin
Festival Interceltique de Lorient, Brittany
2004 Open Studios, Triangle Workshops, New York
Recent Works, Lademoen Kunstnerverksteder, Trondheim, Norway
The Suicide of Objects, Catalyst Arts / Ulster Museum, Belfast
On the First Clear Word, Basement Gallery, Dundalk
You Should Really Go There, Limerick City Gallery of Art
2003 Crawford Open, Crawford Municipal Gallery, Cork
Revealing Objects, Naughton Gallery, Queens University, Belfast
2002 Perspective, Ormeau Baths Gallery, Belfast
Intermedia, Triskel Arts Centre, Cork
Tracce di un seminario, Viafarini Gallery, Milan
2001 City Fabric, Firestation Artists Studios, Dublin
Quadrant Young Contemporaries, Belltable Arts Centre, Limerick
Awards and Grants
Cove Park Artist Residency 2012
Gasworks Residency, London, 2012
Arts Council Project Award 2012
Centre Culturel Irlandais Paris Residency Award 2010
Arts Council Banff Residency 2009
IMMA Artist Work Programme 2008
Lucas Cronach Preis, 2007
Lohr and Schach Preis, 2007
Arts Council Bursary 2010, 2009, 2008, 2007
Arts Council New Work Award, 2008, 2007, 2006
Landwirtschaftliche Rentenbank Art Award, 2006
Shortlisted Artist, AIB Art Prize, 2007, 2006
Culture Ireland Award, 2010, 2007, 2006
Tyrone Guthrie International Residency Award 2006
Fellowship, Triangle Artist Association, New York, 2004
Thomas Dammann Junior Memorial Trust Award, 2001
Selected teaching, lectures and talks
MA in Visual Arts Practices, IADT, Dublin, lecturer and member of programme team, 2010-
Lecturer in Sculpture and Combined Media Department, LSAD, Limerick, 2010-
Carnegie Mellon College of Fine Arts, Pittsburgh
Crawford College of Art, Cork
National College of Art and Design, Dublin
University of Limerick
Massey University, Wellington
Irish Architectural Archive, Dublin
Royal Academy of Art, Copenhagen
Burren College of Art, Clare
Trondheim Academy of Fine Arts
A “birthday party” to celebrate the life of the late author Ardyth Kennelly Ullman, who grew up in Albany, will be held at 1:30 p.m. Sunday, April 15, at Ashwood Court II, 5331 Clay St. S.E., Mennonite Village, Albany.
Friends, family, and anyone who wishes to share personal memories of Ms. Ullman on what would be her 100th birthday are invited to attend. For further information, please contact Nancy Trotic at ntrotic @comcast.net or 503-775-9022; or call Jean Anderson at 541-704-4110.
Ardyth Kennelly Ullman was born April 15, 1912, in Glenada, Ore. (near Florence), on the night the Titanic went down. She died Jan. 19, 2005, in Vancouver, Washington. Her earliest years were spent in Salt Lake City.
Ullman had no children but was very close to her sister, Laura Marion Kennelly Brownell, who passed away Nov. 12, 2011.
I'm afraid I don't know really anything about her Irish roots. Her father was James Daniel Kennelly. I don't know if this helps, but here is a huge Website about the descendants of someone named Roger Billings that includes a lot of Kennellys, with links and sources. Scroll down until you find James Daniel Kennelly and then you can click on links from there.
You could also try searching on Ancestry.com for information (if you don't have an account, you can try it free for 14 days). Search on James Daniel Kennelly, birth Jan. 16, 1880, death Apr. 21, 1921, both in Salt Lake City. There are a number of family trees you can see with information on the Kennellys, though I don't know how far back the family has been traced.
PAT BROSNAN, ATHEA
Donal says, Thanks Pat Brosnan for all you have done for the community since you came from Lyreacrompane to live in Knocknagorna. He got involved in the voluntary work of many organisations; the unselfish work that keeps our community alive. Let us take a look at some of the contributions he has made. He was a member of the G.A.A. an Community Games for many years and helped to raise much needed funds for the great work they do with our young people. A composer and singer of songs he is still involved with Comhaltas Ceoltóirí Éireann and holds the position of chairman of the Athea branch. He joined the Civil Defence and brought his skills as a nurse to bear on that organisation being always available to give aid. He got to know everyone in the parish through his work on the census forms. In recent years he has been active in the Church, taking up the collection at Mass and, until recently, cleaning the Church on a Tuesday. He supported all the local (and not so local) rambling houses and set up the group “Ceol Luimnigh” who had their own monthly sessions and performed voluntarily in local hospitals and nursing homes. In the recent “TradFéile” festivals he took responsibility for the entertainment on stage in the street and kept the music, song and dance going for the weekend. These are but a few of his contributions to the welfare of our society but it is in his writings that he has really done us proud. His weekly column in the Limerick Leader has kept people up to date with all the news of the parish. Since he started writing for this newsletter, many years ago, he has commented on local and national issues and is never afraid to air his opinions. His many books of poems and songs give the reader an insight into his knowledge and love for Athea and its beautiful scenery. It is no wonder that he has won many County, Munster and All-Ireland titles down through the years. I think his greatest honour came this year when he was chosen as one of only 12 people in Munster to receive an award for services to Comhaltas.
Junior Griffin, Listowel
Memories of the ball alley in Listowel
When school was o’re, our hearts would soar,
At meals we would not dally,
With homework done, to seek our fun,
We’d wander to the alley.
To toss that ball against the wall,
And combat every rally,
With pouring sweat we’d play‘til death
Those games within our alley.
With left hand or right we’d try our might,
Until the grand finale,
But win or lose, how we’d enthuse
On those games played down the alley
Each game was fought, the prize was sought,
The marker counts his tally,
The match was won at twenty one,
‘Twas victory in the alley
But time moves on, the youth now gone,
No more do young men sally
To toss that ball against the wall
Of my beloved alley
Yet, memories hold of comrades old
Until the last reveille,
Of times gone by which brought such joy
Those days spent down the alley
Junior Griffin, Listowel.
Tony Kelly ssc died on April 12th 2011; Columban,
Tony Kelly was born in Ballyduff, Tralee, Co. Kerry on 11 April 1935.
He was educated at Holycross P.S., Thurles P.S., and C.B.S. Thurles.
He came to Dalgan in 1953 and was ordained priest on 21 December 1959.
Appointed to the Philippines in 1960, after language studies he was sent to work in the Archdiocese of Lingayen-Dagupan, in northern
Luzon. He spent the next forty years working in various parishes of that archdiocese and later in the newly-created Diocese of Alaminos.
He returned to Dalgan in 2002 and, in his typical quiet unobtrusive fashion, provided many small but essential services for his
fellow-Columbans in the Retirement Home.
Though a very private person, Tony was a kind and genial companion, easy to live and work with. He was a man of deep integrity and honesty. He was selfless in all that he did, and served the people of Pangasinan with total dedication. His whole life revolved around visting the people in their homes and barrios.
Tony was very interested in sport and loved to talk about Tipperary hurling. He was a keen and shrewd bridge player, and was always very willing to share his bridge skills with others. A man of deep prayer and an exemplary missionary, he will be sadly missed by his family, and his many friends in the Philippines and in Dalgan.
Tony celebrated his Golden Jubilee in 2009. He had not been feeling well in recent months, and, once diagnosed with cancer, his illness progressed rapidly. He accepted the diagnosis with the same quiet calm determination that had characterised his life and ministry. He died in St Vincent’s Hospital on 12 April 2011.
May he rest in peace.
Following a number of requests we hope in future to carry fuller reports on funerals in Dalgan along with these obituaries. We hope too that people may make use of the comment function below to add their own memories of deceased Columbans.
ANCESTRY: Christine Kenneally journalist and author has written for The New Yorker, The New York Times, Slate, Time, New Scientist, The Monthly, and other publications. Her book, The First Word: The Search for the Origins of Language. She received a Ph.D. in linguistics from Cambridge University and a B.A. (Hons) in English and Linguistics from Melbourne University. Christine born and raised in Melbourne, Her great-grandfather, J.J. Kenneally, wrote the first pro Ned Kelly book. JJ wrote home to his cousins in Knockanure saying that his father Dan went to Australia and his mother nee Julia Dillon of Lyrecrompane with her four children -Johanna Matthew ,Honora ,and Daniel arrived at Melbourne on the 10th of August 1865 . Patrick died at Listowel he was between Matt and Hanora .These born in Australia were Julia Mrs Ryan ,Jeremiah who died on 31st of August 1884. James Jerome yours truly ,Elizabeth and Mary Mother Benedict at the Presentation Convent , Windsor ,Melbourne .Dan died 16th July 1933 .Hanora is an invalid and has lived with me for many years .Matt is a well to do farmer at Eleven Mile Creek ,Glenrowan West ,Victoria ,Australia.
A little known fact is that many people worldwide came to the aid of Ireland during The Great Hunger. A new book sheds some light on just who reached out the hand of friendship to us in our darkest hour.
Former US President Abraham Lincoln, a tribe of Choctaw Indians and a Turkish Sultan were among a group of 15,000 people worldwide to donate money to Ireland during the Great Famine.
That's according to a new book by the historian and lecturer Christine Kinealy, who is one of the world's most respected authorities on the Great Hunger, having studied it for over 20 years.
The Drew University Professor says Abraham Lincoln's donation, made when he was a newly-elected senator, came as part of a wider effort organised by the then-vice president George M Dallas.
In 1847, the vice president of the United States convened a massive meeting in Washington and he called on all senators and congressmen to go back to their states and do something for the Irish poor.
At that stage Abraham Lincoln, who was newly-elected, really wasn't very well known except for maybe in his home state. But he sent about ten dollars, about five pounds.
The president of the US sent a donation which was 50 dollars.
Christine says that that mass donation didn't pass without incident, however:
There was a whole controversy about the vice president Dallas, who was a slave owner.
So people in Ireland - most of whom were opposed the slavery - had a dilemma: should we take money from people who owned slaves?
In the end they decided that they would and he was happy with their decision.
She says one of the great myths of the Famine surrounds Queen Victoria's donation. It is widely believed that the British monarch only sent five pounds to help with the famine relief.
In reality, she sent much more than that:
People say that 'Queen Victoria gave five pounds, she gave a far higher amount to a local dogs' home'. In fact, this is is a myth.
Queen Victoria was the largest individual donor to famine relief – she gave two thousand pounds and she became involved in some other ways.
But I think people prefer to hold on to the fabled fiver myth. That fits into their image of [her].
Help came from further east too. A Turkish Sultan, who was the head of the Ottoman Empire and had an Irish doctor, offered to give ten thousand pounds to Ireland.
However, in the end gave a thousand pounds. It's believed that he tried to help out in other ways - the subject of which may be made into a movie - but Christine says that the story is difficult to verify:
One of the myths, it just hasn't been substantiated so maybe its just a myth waiting to become a fact, [is] that he sent three ships that the British government said couldn't land in Dublin so they made their way to Drogheda.
So there are all these debates about whether the Sultan of Turkey's ships came to Drogheda. It’s a myth that people like to think was true because it’s a heartwarming story.
Pat’s Corner Oct. 2012
Mental Health Week
This week has been designated mental Health Week and World Mental Health Day falls on this Wednesday October 10th. It is very important for all of us to remember that in any community the mental health of its residents is a top priority. If there are individuals who are in any way subject to the various forms of mental illness then it is obvious that the earlier the problem is tackled the better chance there is of making a full recovery. There are of course in some cases, even in children, early signs of mental instability some of which is caused by certain conditions some of which are genetic in origin and which can only be diagnosed by medical experts in this particular field. These would be in the category of mental deficiency, mental subnormality, mental retardation which were formerly used in relation to these affected people, children or adults, and which is now for the most part described as those with special needs. But what we are looking at here is children who were perfectly normal when they were born and who developed a mental health problem at a later age. Whether this would be due to an acquired phobia or to some physical illness when they were young or to some other factor in their early environment would have to be investigated individually as everybody is different.
Mental illness can take many different forms, those who become withdrawn and can no longer take part in ordinary social activities to some who become over energetic and take major risks with their lives, showing off for instance how fast they can drive a car or take part in other high risk adventures. There are others who sometime have developed an inferiority complex which puts them at a disadvantage in many ways. Then of course there is the major problem of depression which if neglected in the early stages can develop and thereby very often lead to very serious consequences. Mental illness and depression can strike a person at any age, but generally young people in their teens and early twenties can be affected as those in this age category often appear to be the most vulnerable. Persons of that age who show any symptoms of depression or unusual behaviour need close attention and treatment if that is necessary. There are also some young people and indeed older as well who because of their unstable mental condition are easily led into taking part in vandalism , anti-social behaviour and petty crime or even more serious instances of law breaking. which lands them in court. Unfortunately some Police Officers, Prosecuting Attorneys and even Judges do not always take the mental condition of a defendant into account when imposing a prison sentence on a defendant. A few years ago it was revealed that more than half the prisoners in a certain prison were afflicted with some form or another of mental sub normality or psychiatric illness. Quite obviously their place was in a psychiatric institution which would be far more beneficial to those concerned and their families and in the overall far less expensive to the State than having them incarcerated in an unsuitable prison. By all accounts, according to some media reports the ratio of prison officers in relation to the number of prisoners they are looking after is extremely high when compared to the ratio of staff to patients in psychiatric institutions where the figure is far lower. Even in my own time on the nursing staff of psychiatric hospitals in England it was not unusual for a nurse, student nurse or nursing assistant to be put in charge of a ward on night duty at the time in which there were 30, 50 or even more patients. Some new staff at Aston Hall Hospital including myself back in 1957 after working on day duty for a couple of months were then thrown in at the deep end and given charge of a ward on night duty with no worthwhile experience whatsoever and just a couple of visits from the night superintendent while we were having our tea and sandwiches. And yet we coped and the hospital kept functioning in spite of an acute shortage of qualified nurses in England at the time. But the point which one would like to make is why are there so many mentally ill patients 30%, 40% or even 50% of mentally ill patients being kept in prison when they ought to be accommodated in a psychiatric unit at a fraction of the cost. It does not even make economic sense and a prison anyway is no place for a mentally ill patient. When people develop a psychiatric condition of any kind or become depressed it is at this early stage that they need professional help and understanding by their families and relatives before the condition becomes chronic which if neglected first by the patients themselves and then by their families the risks can then become evident and tragic events can sometimes follow. But the worst part of this is that depression can sometimes go unnoticed until a tragedy of some kind happens. Another very important factor in the treatment of depression or any other form of mental illness is to consult the right professional people when undergoing treatment who have the experience to tackle the problem. Limerick Fine Gael TD Dan Neville drew attention to the risk of patients going to the wrong sources looking for a cure as under present legislation anybody can set themselves up as a mental health therapist or counsellor without any qualification whatsoever. As Dan Neville pointed out people who are concerned about their own or a relative’s mental health should stay clear of such bogus therapists, because this so called treatment is likely to do the person more harm than anything else. Such kind of chancers are often likely to charge a hefty fee for their so-called services which causes more stress and disappointment to patients and their families. There is no comparison however between these people and helpful friends and neighbours who often spend hours with mentally ill patients out of the goodness of their hearts trying to help and encourage them in any way they can. That is really what Mental Health Week and World Mental Day, Wednesday of this week, is all about, when everyone in their own way and as far as they are able will do their best to help all those who are distressed with an unfortunate mental condition, patients should be always encouraged to help themselves as far as possible in a kindly and gentle manner and not fobbed off by a dismissive casual unfeeling “pull yourself together” slogan. So let us celebrate World Mental Health Day in a true spirit of concern and consideration for those who are afflicted with mental illness of any kind and let us all hope and pray that they will find comfort and consolation in their lives.
To the Man After the Harrow
Now leave the check-reins slack,
The seed is flying far today -
The seed like stars against the black
Eternity of April clay.
This seed is potent as the seed
Of knowledge in the Hebrew Book,
So drive your horses in the creed
Of God the Father as a stook.
Forget the men on Brady's Hill.
Forget what Brady's boy may say.
For destiny will not fulfil
Unless you let the harrow play.
Forget the worm's opinion too
Of hooves and pointed harrow-pins,
For you are driving your horses through
The mist where Genesis begins.
Brian Boru, from a lecture by Sean Duffy, 4/4/2014
by Gerald O'Carroll
At a lecture in the RIA, 4/3/2014, Sean Duffy, Associate Professor of Medieval History at TCD and author of a new book on the subject, took issue with the idea of the Battle of Clontarf as a Munster versus Leinster conflict. He says it was a battle for the sovereignty of Ireland. In the Book of Armagh, Brian is referred to as ‘Imperator Scotorum’ (‘Emperor of the Gaels’), and indeed he appears to have claimed kingship over the Gaels of Britain as well as Ireland. In the Irish Annals there is reference to the ‘Slaughter of the Foreigners of the Western World’. The clearest account of the Battle of Clontarf is in the Annals of Inisfallen.
It was preceded in 980 by the battle of Tara where Olaf made a grab for the high kingship of Ireland. In 999 Brian Boru confronted Olaf’s son, Silken Silkenbeard, King of Dublin, at the Battle of Glen Mamu. (Nobody knows where this place is.) Duffy situates the Battle of Clontarf against a background of events in England. There were Danish attacks on England in 1006. In July 1013 Sven Forkbeard attacked Aethelred ‘the Unready’, who fled to Norway. Aethelred returned and confronted Knut (Canute), the son of Forkbeard. Knut fled England in April 1014. The victory of Aethelred was very probably known at the time of the Battle of Clontarf, and it must have encouraged the Irish.
Billy Keane has written poem for our friend Fr. Pat Moore.
LINES FOR FATHER PAT MOORE ON EASTER SUNDAY MORNING 2015
The morning’s light
Was cueing outside
The black -out blinds
And men with cows milked,
Broke bread for a second time.
The sad choir sang the song of despair
But Our Moore’s prayers
Are the daily resurrection.
“We must peel life back to the essential,”
Of love and hope, the love of our time”
And the hosts of the Easter light
In wafer lines.
Soon enough, they’ll be spraying our friend again.
He’ll be tired then from the rays of the gun,
But Our Moore knows as surely as anyone,
Even among the thorns and weeds,
Small flowers sing a te deum.
Richard Barry O'Brien Dead.
The Sacred Heart Review, Number 13, 30 March 1918
Richard Barry O'Brien, of London, distinguished Irish author and lawyer, is dead. Mr. Barry was born in Kilrush, Clare County, Ireland, in 1847. He studied in the Catholic University, Dublin, and was called to the Irish bar in 1874 and in the following year to the English bar. He was one of the founders of the Irish Literary Society of London and served it as president. Mr. O'Brien was a prolific writer, particularly on Irish land and political questions. He was the author of" The Irish Land Question and English Public Opinion
," "The Parliamentary History of the Irish Land Question," "Fifty Years of Concessions to Ireland," "Irish Wrongs and English Remedies," "Thomas Drummond's Life and Letters,” The Life of Charles Stewart Parnell," "The Life of Lord Russell of Killowen," "A Hundred Years of Irish History," "Irish Memories," "The Children's Study: Ireland," "Dublin Castle and the Irish People," "John Bright," and "England's Title in Ireland." He edited "The Autobiography of Theobald Wolfe Tone."
Kerryman 1904-current, Saturday, 13 October, 1917; Page: 2
IRISH FOOTPRINTS IN THE TEMPLE.
LISTOWEL LECTURE. On Monday night, Mr. T F O Sullivan, Journalist, Dublin, delivered an interesting lecture on "Irish Footprints in the Temple," under the auspices of the Listowel Carnegie Library Committee, which has arranged a series of addresses for the -winter and spring months. The lecture was effectively illustrated, by lantern slides, and was listened to with the closest attention by a large and appreciative audience. The attendance included the Very Rev. John Breen, S.T.L., President St. Michael’s College; Rev. John Dillon, C.C. : Rev. M O'Connor, Rev. D Hannan, M J Byrne, solr.; H J Marshall, do. ; D J Flavin, U.D.C: L Buckley. U.D.C: B Johnstone, J Kean, Chairman of Rural Council; R O'Shaughnessy, W Keane. N.T; M Keane, N.T. T Corridan. etc. Mr P Breen Who presided, said that it was unnecessary--to introduce Mr. O'Sullivan, a Listowel man, who he was certain, would _give them a delightful treat , as he had done so often before.
Mr O'Sullivan, in the course of his lecture said; I feel it indeed a great privilege to be permitted to inaugurate the series of lectures which have been arranged by the Carnegie Library Committee for the winter and spring months and earnestly hope the promoters will be rewarded by a generous measure of public support. A word or two of explanation with regard to my own address may not be out of place October last it has been my lot to reside almost permanently in London. During that period my work was entirely in the English House of Commons, and in addition to the excitement which debates, questions to Ministers, and sometimes stirring scenes, in what is called the Mother of Parliaments offered. I had the advantage of enjoying quite a number of lively air raids in which, however, I did not interfere (laughter). Notwithstanding these diversions I must confess I found London not only foreign, which was natural in the case of any Irishman, but uninteresting until I commenced a series of investigations into the Irish historical associations of the city. The English capital is, of course, teeming with such associations, and it has been my pride and pleasure, a pleasure which has often been tempered with sadness to follow in the footprints of gifted men of our race who have enriched English literature, sculpture and paintings. He stood in cells where Irishmen whose life ended at Tyburn and on the gibbet and said a silent prayer for them.
Full story in the paper
From the archives
Posted on 24/05/2016 by glinlib
The following article was written by Paddy Faley 32 years ago this week in 1984, which turned out to be roasting summer.
I witnessed a phenomenal incident in the month of May. It was in the area of virgin bogland known as “The Shakey” east of Clounleharde along the Kerryline. It apparently did not get that name without a reason. It had been taken over by a company for planting and, as it happened, I was working with the Council on the roadway nearby when the first machine entered to prepare for the planting of the trees. It was a heavy machine on tracks.
The driver had travelled 60 yards or so when the machine started to sink. He jumped off and with great presence of mind attached a strong steel rope to it. Dumbfounded he stood whilst it sank deeper and deeper into the soft peat until eventually it had disappeared.
People in the neighbourhood, hearing of the event, gathered to look at this unusual happening. There it remained for a couple of days whilst the owners discussed, wracked their brains and consulted others about ways and means of rescuing the machine from the hidden depths.
A few days afterwards a rescue gang arrived with different types of very heavy machines which they attached together directly across the road from the sunken vehicle. A strong pulley rope was then attached to a pulley wheel and the tugging began. The rope cut itself into the bog when it took the strain but, after a while, we saw heaving on the surface as the machine began to be towed underneath the ground, which would swell up overhead, like a wave, as it passed and fall back into place again. Thus the tugging went on until the machine started to appear like a submarine on reaching the sound ground near the roadway. Thus the machine was rescued.
As I said this bogland was not called “The Shakey” without earning the name. All the stories, which we thought were only myths, that we heard from the old folk about cattle disappearing without a trace – yes, human beings too – losing their lives in this area, has now been proved true. No man in his senses, hearing this incident would venture working on this fearsome ground.
Man Lost in Hill
Neatly dressed man who died on the hill in Scotland, has the press speculating and the public were encouraged to help in identifying him which was welcome. As everybody have a right to be remembered? This put me thinking about the thousands of Irishmen who without any preparation were forced to go abroad and were effectively abandoned by the men who were following in the footsteps of the Proclamation. Boys and girls who were in reality children had to fend for themselves and their only hope both before trouble and after it, was charitable people and the church. All had been educated by middle class teachers, most were forced to learn history, maths and other subjects through Irish, which the bright well to do could cope with. But what was the position of the half hungry poor who had no prospects in this country. They were early school leavers, by necessity to feed the rest of their family. It is easy to imagine the sadness and loneliness of youths torn from their roots, without any money and only the clothes in their backs, in an alien environment, which they were taught to despise at school. The man who died in the hill must have been a lucky person, who lived to 70 years and was well dressed and dignified looking.
Just imagine the squalor of hard working and drinking men, everything they had left after sending a few pounds home, was blown over the weekend. The chip vans provided feeding for them where they congregated, fighting, no toilets, mountains of discarded items under their feet, unwashed and no place to throw themselves but a dirty hovel, rented to them by a smart Irishman. Even their wages were often surcharged by Irish gangers. An accident on site they were only moved to next block, to be put on ambulance, so the authorities had no proof of builder negligence. We had all our politicians preaching nationalism, which was the only thing that they could agree on. They neglected to educate the poor which was a criminal act. Do we hear of any inquiry into how Nationalists under the guise of freedom, betrayed and mislead the nation and put a cruel burthen on the majority of the voiceless?. How many died broken and abandoned, forgotten and deserted, by their former pals.
Did the media give voice to their cry for help, in their abandoned and dejected condition?
Who in this country who knew very well the condition of the discarded Irish, campaigned to prevent the same thing happening to new emigrant’s, by preparing them for the road and returning those who could not cope back home.
I started off with the man who died in the hill, with no one to mourn him. But many Irishmen had many to mourn their early death. Wives struggling to cope, children and family members estranged, The deep pain was there, mostly unspoken, with thoughts of what might have been.
Wednesday January 11 2012
'A man who wrote on people's hearts' - tributes to Dan Keane
Donal Nolan attended the funeral of a giant of north Kerry literature in Moyvane on Saturday, where the great Dan Keane's life was celebrated.
POET, songwriter, storyteller and a gentle, godly man of the people — the essence of one of the most celebrated artistic lives of north Kerry in modern times was captured beautifully at the Funeral Mass of Knockanure's Dan Keane in Moyvane on Saturday.
Hundreds packed out the Church of the Assumption in Moyvane on Saturday morning as his family and scores of Dan's close personal friends ensured his sendoff was attended by the traditional music, poetry and balladry he so loved in life.
Dan Keane is survived by sons Brendan, Paudie, Mike and Joe, sisters, grandchildren.
A one-time leading officer of Comhaltas in north Kerry, his many friends in the organisation performed beautifully throughout the ceremony with singers Peggy Sweeney, Karen Trench, Seán Ahern and Mary Mulvihill elevating the initially sombre mood into something else entirely; a joyful celebration of a life fully lived.
Dan's passions were remembered from the very start of the Mass, through the offertory of symbols of his life outlined by Joe Murphy.
The symbols included a Writers' Week anthology marking Dan's close relationship with the festival of which he was chairman from 1988 to 1990; Comhaltas memorabilia marking his time as officer of the group; a minute book from the Knockanure Community Centre Committee; a copy of Ireland's Own taken up by his granddaughter Katie Keane and a copy of Moore's Melodies, the national bard to whom the Coilagurteen native was related, brought to the altar by Sean Ahern.
It was through Fr Pat Moore's homily, however, that the character and personality of the man came to life in all its rich detail. "We have lost a man who was in touch with what we all ache for — that tranquility, wholeness and whole belonging that he had. It was through prayer and love that the Coilagurteen man went there," Fr Moore said.
"He could walk the same road twice and see something different there. He was anchored in himself and he knew that God is the deepest thing in all of us," Fr Moore said as a portrait of a deeply spiritual man in touch with his environment to the most acute degree emerged. Greatest of all Dan's gifts however was his ability to 'knit us together' — as Fr Moore put it — through his art.
He was also of an intrinsically humble and gentle nature: "Did anyone of us here feel judged or diminished or condemned by Dan Keane? Did anyone of us here ever hear a bad word from Dan Keane? The man who drove or cycled around our countryside selling insurance, he had the ultimate insurance policy of all."
He was there for all his neighbours in their darkest hours, Fr Moore added. "What consolation he brought to so many people who lost a loved one tragically. He wrote on people's hearts to say that we are more divine than human and that we can handle our faults and flaws... at age 93 God whispered to him 'come home Dan Keane'," Fr Moore concluded coining a Keane phrase.
Fellow writer, poet and local Gabriel Fitzmaurice's reciting of Dan's The Heather is Purple and Peggy Sweeney's rendition of his song The Green Field by the Quarry (a song inspired by the emigration of his sister and never before heard until Saturday) further enlivened everyone's memory of this singular individual as he was taken for burial; where Karen Trench's haunting version of The Hills Above Rathea sang Dan to his rest.