Tyres

You must have hit something pretty hard
And deep.

He eyed the swelling, felt the heat of it.
The other too, you can see the damage.

Later, he'd invited me to feel the scar.
An open wound that tore through what seemed indestructible.

Can you feel it? You were right to be worried.

You must have hit something pretty hard.
And deep.

Later , as I felt the rumble of barely covered pot holes,
where the road climbs out of Rosscarbery through Knocknageehy,
I felt the shock
that left pieces on the road.

Tracks

Yesterday's foray into the sunny byroads of Co. Westmeath , was partly motivated by a search for a lost relic of the Royal Canal. A few years ago, I caught a fleeting glimpse of something that I found surreal and somehow sad. Stranded in the middle of a grassy field was the unmistakable black and white form of an old canal lock gate. Not discarded , but in place, leveling now not the green waters of the canal , but the soil and rock of a midlands meadow.

The image of that lock gate has fascinated me for years. Whatever accident of geography or failed navigation that had taken me past it was neither recorded nor repeated. Still I remembered its proud stillness. Marveled at how its identity of stone and oak, of leaded paint had withstood the indignity of its abandonment, the filling in of a siding no longer relevant, needed or loved.

In an odd way, the lock's land locking seemed to convey a greater sense of movement than one rushing with water. Or should I say, its sturdy limbs seemed to convey a sense of strength and potential like a runner trapped in sand. It was as if its trapped form longed to push its way through the field. Thirsty for green waters and , to quote Kavanagh once more, leafy-love-banks.

I drove and wove my way through country lanes but sadly did not find my lock gate. So perhaps it had finally surrendered to the plough, or found its timbers rendered and shaped to other purposes. Or maybe, in its quiet patient pushing had finally reached the rushing release of green waters.

I did however, find another abandoned relic of the Royal Canal , whose prison shadowed banks Behan sang of. I stood a little while and thought of those who laid this path, so certain of their course.

Canal Bank Walk
Patrick Kavanagh

Leafy-with-love banks and the green waters of the canal Pouring redemption for me, that I do The will of God, wallow in the habitual, the banal, Grow with nature again as before I grew. The bright stick trapped, the breeze adding a third Party to the couple kissing on an old seat, And a bird gathering materials for the nest for the Word Eloquently new and abandoned to its delirious beat. O unworn world enrapture me, encapture me in a web Of fabulous grass and eternal voices by a beech, Feed the gaping need of my senses, give me ad lib To pray unselfconsciously with overflowing speech For this soul needs to be honoured with a new dress woven From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.

Iliad

I was reminded today of Patrick Kavanagh's poem, Epic, and the line "that was the year of the Munich bother". Today , while millions remained indoors to watch the "epic" clash of Germany and England in the world cup (and I have only the word of others to go on, soccer never having been my game) the good people of the parish of Killucan, Raharney and Rathwire, gathered in glorious sunshine to honour their dead.

Other epic contests meant more here and the priest promised to be brief to allow a hasty exit for those scrambling to Dublin to watch Westmeath take on Louth in the Senior Football Championship (real football this time).

Packed between the monuments, high granite crosses in the old part, polished marble in the new, the community and its returning diaspora, prayed, greeted, counted the lost and measured each other's girth ("you're looking well on it" a compliment to assumed prosperity and a sure signal that you'd gained a few pounds since last year).

With a handful of exceptions, I've taken this pilgrimage ever year for over forty years , migrating from the sacred plot where the history of my Mother's people is carved and my earliest childhood memories are interred, to the rapidly filling new plots and the polished granite and exuberant blooms of my Mother's own space. The village now surrounds the graveyard and the faces and voices have changed beyond recognition. Some things however remain the same: the tremulous choir over the loudspeakers; the pride and care each family takes of its plot, and those of long forgotten neighbours; and the ants. Even amidst the polished granite and fresh graveled paths, the ants march and weave between our feet in the sunshine.

Afterwards, I took some time to explore the paths and byroads of the surrounding countryside, something I've been promising myself for years but never quite found the time. Down roads that still brushed the underside of your car with grass growing in the centre, through villages whose hearts seemed unchanged but were now stranded in the midst of housing developments, some filled with Dublin registered cars, some finished but empty, others hoarded fields of broken promises.

Almost by accident, I finally came upon a hill top ruin and a cemetery even older than the one I had known since childhood. I parked and wandered across a lush green meadow to the silence of the overgrown ruins. I looked out over the river and an ancient landscape unmarked by tiger tracks. Somewhere here, beneath my feet, lie the remains of countless Allen's and Fitzgeralds.

This summer they plan to clear it. I plan to help.

So back to Kavanagh, and his Epic of 1938:

I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided : who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.

I heard the Duffys shouting "Damn your soul"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel -
"Here is the march along these iron stones."

That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was most important ? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said : I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance.

A sense of place

I never went to school or earned a living here. I never kissed a girl, danced, won or lost a love here. I never played for or coached a local team, or even followed its fortunes (though once , when very young, I remember an inter club hurling match on a bright , hot, late summer evening that seemed to have all the drama, excitement, fear and blood of the Colosseum).

Yet this place has held me in its thrall for as long as can I remember. Turning off the road just past Kinnegad, my heart rises in my chest and a sense of belonging takes hold of me, or rather steps out of the verges to travel the road beside me. Guiding me.

Its not alone. Its companion, steps from the shadows too and walks the road, a pace behind. A sense of sadness, and loss. For while the roads and hump backed bridges are welcoming and familiar, beyond the trees, an ancient house sits hidden. Ever present in my memories , my dreams, in the deepest loves of my heart, and yet utterly absent from the daily reality of my life.

Outside the village, though no longer separate, the graveyard is my childhood's harbour. Its heat reminds me of grown up's hissed warnings against the burning sun, though my Mother always felt a chill, swore the temperature dropped at the gate. Names of men who died ancient, are as reassuring as the polished stones and mossed crosses that bear them. Full lives, lived fully in a simple place.

Other names catch my eye, unfamiliar, new. Not from the web lines that link the plots and generations, weaving and interweaving through the history of this place. Plastic toys, guitar shaped wreaths, heart signed messages and head stones necklaced with rosaries tell of shorter, sadder stories. The rapid grief filling of the graveyard, a meter of the villages new life.

I watch my Father tend her garden, my Brother moving amongst the pots, watering, each with care, as if he were feeding chickens, as her grandchildren play amongst the headstones and tumble in the shrinking patch of green, that waits.

That sense of belonging waves me off at Mr's Quinn's. Sometimes she looks like Kathy Allen: blue shop coat; hair net; clipping scissors jutting from her pocket. Or maybe Johnny, in his wellingtons and tweed. Cap raised above his brow to shield his eyes from the sun. Or white haired Aunt Mamie turning back at the gate and walking slowly toward the house offering an arm to Kathy, as if they needed it. "She must think I'm old" she'd say in gentle rebuke, confident of her companion's deafness.

The sense of loss is younger and stays the road.

Remembrance

Its hard now to recall the sense of stepping out of time that last week
involved. The urgencies of life suspended. Meetings, conference calls,
presentations and fear of failure replaced by greetings, shuddered hugs,
prayers and deeper, purer fears.

Death's shadow gave life a rhythm and the day's dawn and dusk became
visible, meaningful.

Invisible was the director that brought new players
onto our stage to play their part as seamlessly as if we had been
rehearsing all our lives.

In the years since, it is not the day or date that disturbs me but the
lengthening of the day and the evening light of early summer.

As the days lengthen and the years pass, the space for grief seemed to shrink but
somehow fresh hurts and remembrance of a mourning trinity in the slanted spring light
brings to mind a poem that brought tears to her eyes and gave me just a glimpse
of something in her soul I had never imagined.


Sacrament

You, pictured for ever, before me;
I stand in black and wear a white
carnation; you, holding an array
of golden roses, maidenhair, smile up
at me and you are beautiful; your body
washed for me and gently scented;
you, set apart in white, a mystery,
all sacred;
we are holding hands for ever,
dedicated; such the signs of a deep
abiding grace.

Another image
graven on my mind; you lie, again
in white; on your breast a silken
picture of the Virgin; they have washed
your body, closed your eyes, you hold
no flowers; vein-blue traces
of suffering on your skin, your fingers
locked together, away from me.

But it is I who loved you, known
the deepest secrets of your grace; I take
the golden ring from your finger; I kiss
the bride,

and they close the heavy doors
against me, of that silent, vast cathedral.


John F. Deane (from Winter in Meath, Dedalus Press, 1985)

Packing It In

I hate packing the night before I travel. I move from procrastination to frustration, deferring until its too late to do anything about the missing items, the shirts not ironed, or worse , buried at the bottom of the wash basket. Then there is the choice of which bag to pack. One night, easy, small, mini everything, no need to bring a spare suit. A week, easy, trusty Mandarina Duck, suiter, running gear, dare I say it, drinking clothes and, at Christmas, room for a few pressies on the return trip. But in between.......

The added complication these days is our friendly neighbourhood volcano. So far I've been lucky and have managed to be grounded on home turf. But each trip feels like a roll of the dice these days and so the packing decision becomes more complicated. Bigger bag, just in case? Extra this and extra that? Another book? A bigger book? But if you're going to have to change your plans, hop from airport to airport, changing flights on the fly (excuse the pun) who needs the extra weight?

As I said , I hate packing the night before I travel, procrastinating.....

Family Days

Its only taken me a year and a half to finally getting around to posting to this blog, but a start at least!

Yesterday became a day of gentle surprises. My niece celebrated her first communion. It being May , forces were divided as more than one celebration was being marked. My traveling companion (No. 1 Son) was in soulful mood and DJ for the day. By the time we reached the outskirts of Athlone, my pride in the wisdom of his age had turned to near awe.

Once religious matters were concluded, my Sister entertained family and friends in her usual understated but thoughtful style. Mountains of lovely food available, but never forced, throughout the day, a constant flow of tea, coffee and wine and the ebb and flow of friendly conversation as family, friends and neighbours joined the gathering. The surprise arrival of the Ice Cream Van from "town" lit little faces with sunshine that was quickly clouded by melted whiteness and caused adults to recalculate their exercise plans for the week and maybe regret that they'd already exceeded a month's sugar quota with the cheese cake, banoffi and piles of other home baked goodies.

Embarrassed to say I am without a camera at the moment, a digital one at any rate, so there are no pictures to share but I'm not sure that I could ever have captured the highlight of the evening. Once the "Daddies vs Kids" match had concluded (featuring a truly vicious tackle by the four year old nephew taking out and tumbling his dad in spectacular fashion) pressure mounted for a "Moms vs Kids" game.

And what a game! I'm not sure my sisters ever played football when we were kids. In fact I'm pretty sure they didn't, but watching them play, supplemented with local friends and in-laws, had me traveling through time again. Aside from the unexpected skill, and the commitment by some players to "never playing the ball when you can play the man instead", there was something magical about the joy and energy of the thing as they whooped, cheered, skipped and kicked in flashing colour and clacking pearls. You simply couldn't watch them being kids and not feel like one yourself, in a very heart warming, life affirming way.