Details
‘Doc On 1’ with Michael Gannon. Broadcast Friday the 6th Of December 2024 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
Comment
Details
‘Doc On 1’ with Michael Gannon. Broadcast Friday the 6th Of December 2024 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
Comment
‘Doc On 1’ with Michael Gannon. Broadcast Friday the 6th Of December 2024 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
Attribution NonCommercial 4.0
Others are free to share (to copy, distribute, and transmit) and to remix the audio as long as they credit the author and do not use the audio for commercial purposes.
Learn moreListen to Doc On 1 6dec2024 by Connemara Radio Archives MP3 song. Doc On 1 6dec2024 song from Connemara Radio Archives is available on Audio.com. The duration of song is 01:01:38. This high-quality MP3 track has 96 kbps bitrate and was uploaded on 8 Dec 2024. Stream and download Doc On 1 6dec2024 by Connemara Radio Archives for free on Audio.com – your ultimate destination for MP3 music.
Comment
Loading comments...
The documentary hour on Connemara Community Radio features an introduction to the Uachtarard Writers Group. The group, based in a traditional village in the west of Ireland, is a mix of poets, artists, and people of all ages. They meet weekly to explore and play with language, expressing their thoughts and feelings through writing. The group has published books and participated in various community projects. The facilitator, Pete Molyneux, guides the group in their creative endeavors. Members share their experiences and read their poetry, highlighting the importance of art and community. Mae'r rhaid i'w ddweud. Mae'r rhaid i'w ddweud. Good afternoon and welcome to this afternoon's broadcasting on Connemara Community Radio the 6th of December. It's a wet and windy day and there are weather warnings so do be careful if you're out there and that I think will apply to most of the weekend. My name is Michael Gannon and this is our documentary hour here on Connemara Community Radio. We go to different sources and as I said at the start of this winter when we took the series back on air we have a number of different sources this year and many local sources indeed. And we're delighted this week to bring you, we won't call it a documentary, it's a presentation or a performance and an introduction to Uachtarard Writers Group. And this has come in to us from Katie Keneally from Uachtarard and we're delighted to broadcast it and very grateful to Katie. Uachtarard Writers Group as you will hear is a long established group and a group which received a lot of support in the beginning from the Clan Resource Centre in the heart of Uachtarard. And Clan Resource continue to be a great support to Uachtarard writers but they're also well established now and independent and very much open to welcoming new writers or people who want to try to write for the first time perhaps. But you'll hear all about it now in this beautifully put together programme by Katie. Katie will introduce it and I'll just give you a list of the writers who take part in it but you'll hear them all introduced throughout the programme. They are John Cronin, Barbara Dunne, Patrick Keneally is the musician on the programme. He plays a song two or three times throughout the programme. Gerry Slevin, Diane Van de Kemp and Kathleen Fury also read in the first part of the programme. Then you'll hear from the Clan Resource Centre itself from the administrator there Belinda Mullen. And in the second half of the programme we have Sarah who is a young mother in Uachtarard. We have Jack McCann who has been on Conamara Community Radio many times talking about his volunteer and charity work. Philippa McGuire, Jess Walsh and Tim Kershaw. So that's at least 10 writers and also very importantly Pete Molyneux is their facilitator and their mentor I suppose and their good friend and their old good friend. Now they have forged a deep bond throughout the year. So I'll hand you over to the voice of Katie Keneally and to the writers of Uachtarard Writers Group. Hello, my name is Katie Keneally. Earlier this year I was invited by the Uachtarard Writers Group to come and talk to them and hear directly from their members about what the writers group means to them. Uachtarard is a traditional village in the west of Ireland nestled beside Lough Corrib, the largest lake in the Republic, at the start of the Conamara mountain range and only 26 kilometres from Galway City. It's also where I grew up and first experienced the joy and support of a local community. The writers group is an eclectic mix of poets, artists, retirees, young people, older people, a group that perhaps you wouldn't expect to spend an hour together every week and yet they do. It was a pleasure to meet with them, hear their stories and most importantly their beautiful poetry and words. I think they are a perfect example of the importance of investing in your local community and the importance of art and the impact it can have on an individual's life. I started by talking to Pete Molyneux, who is the facilitator of the group, to learn more about how they began and how it's evolved and grown over the years. We started off as an intergenerational project and then developed an intercultural focus, thinking people from different countries new to the area, with local writers to share stories and write creatively together. Out of that came our first publication, Different Together, launched by then Minister for Culture Michael D. Higgins in 1995. Since then the group has published several books representing members' work while continuing the connection with our local community, taking part in a number of intergenerational projects in local schools, most recently a storytelling and visual art collaboration with the primary school, resulting in a wonderful publication, Tell Me a Story. We've hosted numerous open workshops and held public readings for Bealtaine, Culture Night, the local Mayfly Festival and National Poetry Day. We welcome everyone and while there are people in the group who've been writing for years, we're always open for anyone new to join or just drop in and try it out. In fact, we frequently return to basics, reminding ourselves of the essentials of the art and craft of creative writing. We invite people writing in any form, poetry, stories, dramatic writing, non-fiction. We've even explored song and made a CD with poems set to music. What do we do when we meet? We explore and play with language, with words, find creative ways to express thoughts and feelings, discover ways of responding to the world around and within us, allow a voice for what is going on inside ourselves, make it audible so we can share it aloud with others. Myself, I was very lucky to have a mother who loved poetry and novels and drama, and then a succession of English teachers who inspired and encouraged. One reason for writing is to mark or make a note of things, put thoughts and feelings down before they disappear, a desire for permanence, which is true to our lives in general. We don't want to just fade away. We meet every Thursday at 11 a.m., both in the room and online, and we found this hybrid form of meeting works fine. We go on to around 12, creating, communicating, expressing, sharing, throw in some tea and biscuits. What more could you want? I'd like to say how grateful I am to the Resource Centre for hosting us. I'm also hugely appreciative of the way the members of the group have taken on the load when it comes to things like grant applications, consulting printers, not to mention visual art skills in designing the covers and content of the wonderful books we've produced, and much more besides. This is an early poem from my first collection, Zen Traffic Lights, and it's called Wasting Away. Wasting away, we hope that some things cannot be erased. The Buddhist sees each sorry soul, the turn, though most of it will have to go to waste. Hooked on progress, forever making haste, we gobble up, incinerate and burn, believing some things cannot be erased. And for fear we may become debased, we cultivate improvement, seek to learn, though most of it will have to go to waste. But whether we're the chaser or the chaste, much like a coin, depending on the turn, hoping some things cannot be erased, we look back at those footprints, barely paced, lay lines of meaning, wistfully discern, though most of it will have to go to waste. Thinking then of this life as but a taste of the things to come, beyond our current concern, accepting we will one day be erased, we hope and pray that some things never go to waste. Thanks again to Pete for his time. It's clear from listening to him how lucky his writers are to have him at the helm. I'm now going to step back for a little bit and let you hear from some of the members in the group and their work. Starting with John Cronin. Initially, I joined the group through the encouragement of my wife, who had attended a few sessions with Pete Molyneux. I was a bit tentative and nervous, but gradually settled in. It took me a while to begin to hear what other people, poets, were saying about themselves through their poems. Up to that point, poetry was a solitary pursuit, an engagement with the written word. But to hear it spoken aloud is a different experience. I remember with fondness the voices of Chris Mayhew and Margaret Larmoney, who have since passed on. It still surprises me how much Pete can hear in one take. And it strikes me that attention to the words is the key. You have to get out of the way. Casting my mind back to my teens and early twenties, I can recall the experience of really hearing a poem, what the poet was saying. And fifty years later, I can still enjoy these poems and poets. Dylan said, a poet is a naked person. Some people call me a poet. I always like that insight. This live experience of poetry or art is one of the great unifying experiences of life. Then there's the experience of writing your own poetry too, when the initial phrase comes to you and the poem evolves and surprises you. Then there is the working on it and perhaps finishing it. Some French poet said, a poem cannot be finished but abandoned, or words to that effect. Anyway, it's a quiet joy to read, hear or write poetry. You discover you're not alone but part of a whole. It's not unlike the experience of love. There's a poem in memory of my sister. She died roughly a year ago and I was asked to do it as a communion reflection. It's called The World is a Different Place. There are moments of communion and there are moments of grace and moments of love. After a shower, rain muffles the windowpane. There is sunlight in the garden, shadow and light, a whirr of wings, a bird in flight, a lighting. Coming to rest in the invisible recesses of the heart. My heart is open to you in love. May that love be commensurate with the love you shower upon your loved ones. How even in a state of coma a smile plays upon your lips at the mention of your beloved Jessie's name. Our hearts are open to you in love. There is the lovely realisation that it is the same, the one love. Yes, Paula, there are moments of love, there are moments of grace and there are moments of communion. And now, Paula, you are forever in love. My name is Barbara Dunn. I am a multidisciplinary artist, writer and poet. I am originally from the Carder-Leach border and I know it's a cliché, but even as a teen I wanted to be a writer. I wrote my first book of poetry when I was 16 and I started writing poems in my early 20s. I moved to Galway via Dublin to study art in Cloonbury. After graduating, I concentrated my energies on parenting and teaching art, mainly to children, but to adults as well for many years. I had two more children and continued my art practice. I also was writing reviews of exhibitions and they were being published online and in journals. So that was my writing at that time. Around 2011 I became a single parent and a year and a half later our lives changed forever when their dad died. We had to move house shortly after his death and that's how we came to be living in Wycullen in Galway. It was after these overwhelming changes that I began to write again, mostly poems. I kept a journal and wrote, but I was afraid of showing my work in case it was rejected. But something shifted and my New Year's resolution in 2018 was to join a writer's group of class. I did some research and decided that the Uhtuar writer's group was where I would dip my toe first. It seemed much less intimidating than a formal class. Plus I'd heard of Pete, I felt actually he was a draw as well as a facilitator. I'd met him and I'd gone, you know what, I'd go, I'd start there. I still remember my first time sitting around a table of friendly faces. I was very shy and very intimidated by them all. But I read my poem and the earth did not swallow me up. I came back the next week and the next and slowly my confidence grew. And by the end of that year, I was at my first book launch that included a selection of my poems, which was amazing actually. During the pandemic, I had the opportunity to both write and paint almost every day. It was during this time that I began to get published more in journals and newspapers and really just give more time to those. So why do I keep writing? Why do I keep writing? It's a compulsion. It's like a, you know, it's like a vocation and it's a journey and I'm still on mine. It's a way of expressing myself with the intention of connecting to others through my words. I have discovered that a piece of writing or a painting, they're not really truly finished until they've been experienced through the senses of others. So, yeah, so I write in order to connect. By being a member of the writer's group, I found the support of like-minded people who unfailingly have offered their honest and thoughtful observations of my work. I've had the opportunity to grow and learn as a writer. I have had the space to experiment and make mistakes. The encouragement of the group has been inspiring. This is a poem called Doolin. It was published in Drawn to the Light Press. This here, yeah. Doolin. Thistle down day-trippers hurry to catch the ferry out to the island, watching the cliffs swell and shrink. Sea birds circle as we make our way out onto the limestone pavement platter, buttressing the shore. The sea waves with white fingers before retreating into hazy azure. Ochre grasses cushion the sharp edges of the burn. You've never been before, and you gaze in amazement at the barren landscape. Littered with treasures, hairbell, devil's-bit scabious, knapweed, and a lone thistle. Past the herd of cattle that young Italian warned us about in broken English, we stop and sit close to the cairns. On a rocky shelf facing the sea, I heave the skeletons from my wardrobe, heavy mahogany with a beveled mirror. My words slip through the cracks under our feet, filling the empty gap of decades of misunderstanding. Suddenly, a fish twists in the rolling deep below us, like the salmon on an old ten-pence piece, flashing like a new penny. Thank you. That piece of music was Living in the City by local Uxborough musician Patrick Keneally. Back to our writers now, and next up we have Jerry Slevin. I became widowed a few years ago. I had two young sons, and I was looking for companionship in a sort of a creative space. Designer by trade, if you wish, but that's work. And then I had this really good friend called Margaret Larmy, a lot older than me, but we knew each other for going back a long time. And she said that there was a great writing group in Trout Village, and she said, why don't you come and try it? And so I did, and I stayed. I'm nothing like anybody else in the group, in the sense that we're all great poets. So I spent a lot of time just listening and enjoying the different ideas that were put out by Pete Molyneux, whom I also knew in another life. And so when she said he was anchoring it, I thought, it will be good, because our paths have crossed in my professional life. So I thought, yeah, it'll be probably very good. And so, yeah, I enjoyed it, sort of like being part of the community in a committed way, like showing up and I had the time. And yeah, I really enjoyed it. And then Margaret passed away. And I found that very difficult because one of the reasons I went there was I used to look forward to meeting her and it would be a mutual time together then, you know, shared space. So I just called it, and this is from the most non-poet in the group. It's called For Margaret. Life is too short. I'll miss you at the table of words, your warm, soft voice, your gentle smile. I hope you enjoyed my singing as much as I enjoyed your poetry. I'm not looking forward to looking across the table to your empty chair. I'll miss you at the table of words. So I mean, I do still miss her. She's a really lovely person that passed through my life. And yeah, so I don't know, one day I just wrote that because I did for weeks and weeks had come and she always sat at the same side of the table and she was just gone. And she's not the only person we've lost in the group, but I suppose she's the one person that meant a lot to me in her own peculiar way, if you wish. But I definitely love the eclectic mix of people in the group, the ideas. I love the poetry they write and the different poems we look at. So yeah, I've also enjoyed the company and, you know, and listening to ideas to something that I would never usually do or not even really consider. And so it's fascinating, especially when Pete gives an exercise with one topic or a prompt. And then you hear how many different ways that's expressed, which I find fascinating because you get a chance to for people to explore it. And the group is very open minded. It's a non-judgmental. So you can really explore where people and they can put out there on the table where the idea came from. And that can be such an eye opener. Do you know what I mean? Because I think if you know what's behind something, particularly poetry, gives you insight into the depth of the words. I think it does for me. Do you know what I mean? So if I have a chance in this, I'd like to read one more poem. It's a little bit longer now than Margaret, but I spent a long time flying in and out from New York to Clifton on the M59 before they did this new roads work. So one day I, as I was driving, this came to me on the M59, which is the road, main road from Galway City to Clifton. So Clifton, 17K, it's 9.52 and I'm like the Mad Hatter at seven minutes. The cloud shadow moves across the pin on my right. It is also moving at a clip like it too is late. Perhaps the universe is in Mad Hatter mode. Everything is running late. Piles of grey gravel outside the quarry, dark grey shadows scurry across the mountaintops. But the land is a silver grey, at odds with the autumnal landscape. A mobile telephone mast, shorter and sleeker than the ESB pylon. An island floats from the lake to my left, incongruously wrapped in verdigris netting. The reds of the prickly hedgerows, the berry-laden bushes, the last of the warm yellow firs. An orange triangular road sign, men at work ahead, clocking 80 on the M59, 9.59. Hurstling through the narrow tree tunnels splashed with fuchsia. Another warning sign, bends ahead, the newly painted central white line on the black top. Around the next bend all the colours lose their sharpness. The sky is leaden grey and the sheet of rain slaps the windscreen with a whoop. 10.03 on clock on, in one piece, but late. Greetings. My name is Diana Vandekamp and I'm originally from Pasadena, California. And I've lived in Ireland now for six years. And I've been in the Writers' Group for about four years. And my father-in-law, who's also part of the Writers' Group, Jack McCann, he invited me to join. And I just fell in love with the whole group and the ethos and the people. And, yeah, it's been a real inspiration. I've been writing for pretty much my whole life, but didn't take it very seriously. And so the prompts every week kind of helped give me a bit of discipline and regularity to my writing. Even though I've certainly gone off the rails sometimes and not always followed the prompts and sort of written whatever was in my heart or head at the time, like short stories or essays or really whatever came to mind. But it's mostly been poetry. You can just really go anywhere with it, which is so freeing. The deadline is crucial for me because, yeah, that's really sort of forced me to get my thoughts and words together. And I wouldn't say it's competitive with the other writers at all, but you just sort of want to meet them at their level. And they're so talented. Everybody is so talented and at different levels of writing, which is also really, really interesting. For one of our workshops, I got to experience someone writing their first poem ever, which was so exciting. The community here has been so welcoming and incredible. And moving country, to be honest, was a little bit stressful and a little bit scary to kind of figure out where you belong. So I've been really lucky to stumble into some incredible community groups. Probably my favorite is the writers group, if I'm going to be completely honest. And I've made friends, lifelong friends and inspirations for the rest of my existence. So I just feel really blessed to have been lucky enough to be welcomed by this group. My poem is called Writer's Paradise by Diana Zandekamp. When the mind is still as the summer's midnight, ink bursts like fireworks. The warmth of words wash over the page, glowing splashes of light for eyes that you haven't met yet. The pen is a vessel for play, for brain-bearing fruit to be picked when ripe, then gobbled like strawberries, juices running down hands in the messy joy of design. You can step away. You can come back. It is a faith-filled journey that the thoughts you think will form from the formless, molding your masterpiece. Deeply connected to the creator with an effortless scribble. That is the magic moment when the piece becomes a poem. My name is Kathleen Furey and I'm a painter and a printmaker. I'm originally from Galway, but I've lived in Uchterard for the past 35 years. I always liked English at school and I still have some of my school books, and in particular one called Junior Voices that I still read all the time. Galway was a very lovely place to live and very creative when I was living there in the 1980s and poets and artists and writers were part of the same social circles and poetry seemed part of everyday life and very accessible. I used to write a little bit then, but eventually I focused more on visual arts, although I always felt regretful that I didn't make time to write in those intervening years. So I heard about the Writers' Group in Clann and I joined in 2012. I knew of its existence and I knew Pete, who's the facilitator, since my Galway days, but I was still a bit apprehensive about joining an established group. But Jess, who was another member of the group and an artist, said that she would join too, so we decided to go together up to the meetings in the Clann Resource Centre. And the group were, and they really are, very welcoming and encouraging and I felt at ease straight away. I'm still amazed and delighted at some of the things I've written over the years and I think that's really important, like just the very act of showing up to write each week. It really has led to insights and to memories and a lot of, you know, a sort of a clarity and that's been really helpful in other parts of my life. And then, you know, with the group I really liked the discipline of the homework and trying different forms like acrostics and villanelles and ballads, songs and haikus. It's almost like working out a puzzle and I enjoy the homework. And then I find that writing is a way of responding to life and to reflect on what's important at the moment. It kind of comes out in the writing. But the group, they really are great, very supportive and Pete's responses and feedback to all of our work is really insightful and helpful. And we also learn a lot from each other. We've become friends over time. So I suppose the visual arts work I do reflects on how we discover traces of people who lived before us and how, you know, how we interpret the stories and histories. And this ties in with the poem I'm going to read. It's called Bridge and it's about the stone bridge in Utheraert, which is 200 years old. And we were doing the Golden Mile walk, which was devised by Mary Kine of the Heritage Group. And one of the stops is at the stone bridge near the church. And as we were looking down into the flowing water, a friend who was with us said he had a colleague who was interested in bridges and he pointed out some of the architectural features. I knew it was built in 1820 by Alexander Guimo, who was a Scottish engineer and was part of his road improvement scheme between Galway and Clifton. So I did some other research and the description of the bridge from the National Built Heritage Service website provided some of the words for the poem. So I suppose this is a tribute to the little bridge, you know, to quote the article. It's high quality of construction allows it to continue to fulfil its original function in the 21st century. And I love that idea of all of the people who have used the little bridge in the 200 years. Bridge. When Guimo built the little bridge at the ford in the river, could even he have foreseen its usefulness? For 200 years, three arches with two louvoirs and raised keystones have borne the weight of being coney cars, bicycles, stagecoaches and carriages, tour buses and caravans, donkeys and carts, horses and traps, and GB cars on motoring holidays. V-shaped cutwaters ease the flow of the Owen River between limestone piers over the sulphured riverbed, first to the lake and then on to the sea at Galway. Our children have walked its gentle incline, to school, to play, to the waterfall that quietens the waters meandering through our town. We must protect you, your hammer-dressed stonework, parapets and crenellated copings, your gunwale soffits with rendered plinths for arch springing, your river piers with pyramidal caps on rendered bases, your limestone, cool on a summer's day, your promise of Connemara. Such beautiful words and stories from the group there, and there's more to come. But before we get to that, I also spoke with Belinda Mullin, who is the coordinator at the Clan Resource Centre in Uptharard. This is where the writers' group was first established and where they meet each week, if not meeting online. Belinda was able to give great insight into the work that the centre does and the role of the writers' group within that. My name is Belinda Mullin and I am the coordinator of the Clan Family Resource Centre. We're based here in Uptharard and we cover not only Uptharard, we cover the whole of Connemara, to be honest. When I came here ten and a half years ago, the writers' group were then one of the oldest groups that had been established. And the development officer that we have in post now would agree with me in saying that they're now quite independent. Where we come in is that initially, pre-Covid, we would have always given the space to the writers' group here in the Clan Centre on Station Road in Uptharard, where they would all meet together. It would be for two hours. They would, as I said, put a few euro by every week that was going into their account, so that they always had money to help support the payment of their facilitator, which would be Pete Mullin. Over Covid, they moved to Zoom and it was great because it meant that people still had that connection socially once a week. And we had people like that would be linking in from the UK that would have been part of the group. And that was brilliant to keep that connection going for him as well and his wife. They meet every week on a Thursday still, and my role in supporting them is to set up the Zoom link. Our other role then would be to help them with completing forms for applications. And the reason our support is required is that we have the insurance, where if they are meeting here on the premises, they're covered by our public liability. We also help them in that Patricia organises their bank account and we do their accounts, their accounts are audited with ours on an annual basis. As I said, they're quite independent. And the other thing that they need from us is that they're under a company. And when they are under a charity, when they're applying for funding, that's really important because it increases the chances of a positive outcome. So other than that, they are one of our best and I suppose most highlighted groups because they have put together a number of books. They're doing this podcast and they've done other projects with schools. They're really, really integrated into the community, the writers group. They're known for everything. And it's really like Clannagh are very proud to be part of them, you know, because as I said, they're an amazing bunch of people. Amazing because they all had different careers and are tied together through their love now for creative writing, for putting poetry together. And again, like we have plastic surgeons, we have ex-teachers, artists, and yet they've come together with this common love and their writing is just, it's just amazing. It's just amazing. And I have to say, as the coordinator from here, I'm extremely proud that Clannagh feel part of them. They did a great book with the school and that was a really successful piece of work. I went to the launch of it, which was held in the school and the young kids that participated in it was there. And it was also, apart from a writing piece, I would have viewed it as an intergenerational piece. And again, something very positive for the community. So, you know, we still have people that want to join them. The word is out there about them all the time. As I said, we do miss that they don't come as much in person. As I said, pre-Covid, it was, you know, a weekly thing here on a Thursday, the car park would be full, the writers were here, make sure there was plenty of biscuits in for them. But now, I don't know if it's good or is it bad, they're not here as much, but they still have their weekly meeting. And they still have, like, one of them was away in Portugal and it was great because he was still able to link in. As I said, they're a very dedicated group. And I think apart from being a group, they've all become really good friends. And they've all become informal social supports for one another. And I suppose in relation to Clon itself, our work also, we work to reduce social isolation. And the writers group, whether it's on Zoom or in person, has helped us with that goal. Thanks again to Belinda. Now back to the main event, our writers. My name is Sarah and I'm a new mom. I'm an occasional writer and a very enthusiastic cook. I live by the sea, but I come to Uachtarard because I work in the credit union here. And that's how I found out about the Uachtarard writing group. I've always loved writing as a form of expression. It's been always like an itch that I need to scratch and always in my head that I need to write. I have a degree in English and a master's in journalism. And I've written pieces for local papers and online and radio over the years. But I work in a different area now and life has got so busy that I'm not really writing creatively anymore. So ironically, having a baby was the break that I needed. As many people know, women lose themselves in early motherhood. And it's very hard to find time for things you love. So I joined the group as a gift to myself and also for my daughter. I want to raise her to live a life full of art and self-expression and being brave, even when you've had no sleep and you're staring at a blank page. The group has been truly amazing. And actually, it hasn't been writing again that is the gift that I was looking for. It's actually turned out to be the group. They are warm and encouraging and you can do no wrong. So thank you to my fellow writers. And I will leave you with a memory and a great quote from journalists here in Galway who was a lecturer of mine, John Cunningham. He used to say to us, just write the damn thing. So that's what I'm trying to do. So this is Boiled. Boiled. Here comes Sleep. An alluring, delightful, heavy cloud. Grasping her breath and setting the pace, she relaxes and melts like butter on the side of an oven-fresh bake. Reluctantly captained by the cousin of death, she sleeps. A heavenly refresh and break from her family, she finally loosens her hands, releasing steam, fumes of control and a questionable grip on reality. Boiled from the day she takes half the bed and a vast domestic escape. She exhales, purring with the force of a seasoned and slowly boiled kettle. The ritual sets a fresh brew and quickly wipes up today's mess. No choice but to stay put, as sleep has her now. For half the day she hates it and loves it in equal measures. Her restless grudge of rest. A poor dancer, yet she tries so hard. But she gives in and forgives nightly. On her side and soft in the navy life. My name is Jack McCann. I was born in Rush in County Dublin. Then lived in Monaghan since the age of six. I went to O'Connell Secondary School in Dublin. That's on the North Circular Road. And then I went to UCB where I did medicine. And my training hospital was the Matter Hospital. I specialised in plastic surgery and trained in both Ireland, England and Australia. I became a consultant plastic surgeon in Galway in 1989. I was the first consultant plastic surgeon there. I worked till I retired in 2010. I always dabbled in poetry. But took it seriously just before I retired. By joining a creative writing class in the hospital under poet and dramatist Mara Holmes. I later joined Uhtreard Writers Group under the guidance of Pete Mullinew. I have published three poetry books. And I'm involved in multiple anthologies of both writing groups. When an idea comes to me, I have to write it down. And then develop it until finished. I've also written some plays. I've written a poem about my grandfather. Which I will now recite. It is called A Knock on the Door. Knock, knock, knock. 22nd of November, 1920. Knock, knock, knock. 1am. Jack McCann, you IRA bastard. Come out or we'll burn you out. Voices English. Alcohol soaked. The tans. Trigger happy. Licensed to kill. A traitor has spoken on this bloody Sunday night. Two babies crying. A third, my father, turns in his mother's womb. His cry unheard. I am coming down. Trousers on, boots on. Short loose, jacket looser. A last hug for his wife and my father. A soothing word of farewell luck. We will pray for you, Jack, from his in-laws. As he rapidly descends the old wooden stairs under the thatch. Where is young brother James now? Lying in a grave near the Somme? Died fighting for their king and country? Now they are fighting in our land. As they have done for seven hundred years. Is it back to Frongok or a free passage to Van Diemen's land? No, it was his neighbour's field. Bulleted and bayoneted. On his knees. From where he went to his maker. I have his name. I have his dreams. I have his gold pocket watch from his comrades on his wedding day. Have I his courage. Now a cross stands where he fell. To remind how he was crucified. Erected forty-five years after his death. By his comrades and friends. Now each knock on the door. Awakens the ghosts. Brings the voices. Come out or we will burn you out. My name is Philippa Maguire and I joined the Writers' Group a good while ago now. Basically so that I could get confidence in my voice. I was trying to find my voice. And writing in the Writers' Group has really expanded how I use language and how I feel about poetry. I never really was into poetry. I love fiction. But poetry now, writing it and reading it, it brings something. You learn something about yourself, but solely yourself. So that's why I keep in touch with all the others. Every week you hear something new that was just getting excited about something. Somebody had written something and you go, how did they say it that way? That's what it's for me. That's why I keep coming. It's exciting and interesting. So you get this hour of words and ideas. And they set you off on other ideas. In a way it's like being able to express yourself and fully listening to you at the same time. And you listening. And to have that as a circle. It really is important to expand your writing I think. I'm reading this piece. It's the longest poem I've ever written in my whole life. I'm going to dedicate it to the Claddagh Watch. For all the people who walk the bridge. So I'll start. She feeds the rats at O'Brien's bridge. Red fire oozes, she explodes into raucous voice. We are all God's crackers. My mission to lust the unloved. As the rats scratch, she places her porridge. Feeding the itching, scraping mass of pilgrim takers. Scrubbing to dump the tide. When she leaves there is a silence. A lake of porridge married to the bins. And in the light, only a tripping of long tails. Waiting for the chips and pits of human takers. Who wobble, hands laced in white powder. Bouncing up their party time. In the canal the lone hooker waits. Sharing her light to those that flow from Monroe's. Tattered jeans and blotting mind. Stagger, bumble and flounder. Reeling under the prattle of high heels. They seek the taxi of an asylum seeker. Soft spoken, small weary man. Talks to the Claddagh Watch. As they try to persuade him that life is worth living. And addiction can be fought. And that the mind is free to live but where? Only in the clouds that those words matter. Pain emanates. Surrounding him in a place where darkness is simplest. A blanket, a cardboard box. A doll for wasted foxy dreams of peace. And crack cocaine to disappear again. Down Nemo's pier. Lying green heels struggle to carry her weight. Pouring down stumbling legs, tears drip. No love here tonight. Or any other life. She falls not caring anymore. Light floods the water as she finds the shadows to touch the flow. It's grand, she whispers. It's all grand for I was never good enough. In the air. Large and islanding comes to mind. The cold holds her now. I know for sure I'm inside a play. Inside a Martin McDonagh play. The pulse of darkness spews hugging awe. As blood flows out the head of a boy too stupid to sedate the screaming. Kick his head in. Kick his head in. Wolves of torment tearing life filtering away. Down a Spanish arch. Empty cans waltz among the seagulls. Who fight and strive to get the last greased soap chip. Among the paper, the urine and skins. Lies a red rose. Pulverized. I am on the edge of loneliness. Watching the river calling me to fly. Knowing I will never die this way. As Mossy turns and says. It's hard her life to feed the rats. Her mission totally misunderstood. Her life's work heroic. Emma squirms her face and has a question. Have you anything better to be doing than be feeding those rats? Those rats. Those rats that creep and crawl up and scare us all. I think it's magnetic forces are living inside a blue ball in space between swan and grave. Yes, says Emma. A swan song. As the edges move between us we head across the Wilton Bridge. A tone for the wolf loving. I stop. I see you standing there. Your grin mirrors mine. I run to you. Will you say it? I nod. You are the insanity of my heart. My landscape of confusion. Of pure longing to save a memory of touch. Our dark wooden river that has tripped and fallen between wave and storm. Today's dormant. Untouched by the stars around us. We yearn to dance. Your eyes are mine. And the green flecks dissolve. I look at the space that once we walked. But you are gone. Gone so far that rainbows fail to find the gold that once was you. Living in a city. And it's like you've just met. Photos of a feeling you might just forget. Music there again by Patrick Keneally with his song Living in the City. Jeff Walsh was the next writer who spoke to me. I've always been an artist and a photographer and I was a bit later coming to poetry. Well our mum introduced my sister and I to poetry when we were very young. She used to read us the Puffin Book of Verse and then we read it ourselves to her. And one of the poems that we loved was the one about Matilda who told lies and who burned. And we practically had to have that every night. It was a very cautionary tale. But somehow we loved it. That was by Hilaire Belloc. Later on then I just, there were some poems I really liked. And because I went to elocution classes I used to have to learn poems. So I loved The Listeners by Walter Gellimare. That was just a lovely mysterious poem. But I did always think that poems should rhyme. And I discovered definitely that that wasn't true when I learned about the haiku. I got very, very fond of the haiku and used to write quite a lot of them. The haiku is a Japanese form of writing. Oh, ancient. And it was mainly about nature. And it had just 17 syllables. Five, seven and five. And I think the reason I liked it so much is it was so short. Because I always seemed to be doing something else. And I loved the quickness of it. I actually think it's a great way of introducing children to poetry. Because it's very good fun. I came to live in Uxgerard from Dublin in 2008. And I heard then about the poetry group from my friend Margaret Larmanie whom I'd known all my life. And she just absolutely adored being part of the group. I'd actually love to read a little poem of hers. She's gone. She's left us now. Gone to another realm. I'd love to read this short poem. It's called Portrait of New Life. In baby Joseph's voyage of discovery, his little hand holds up a brand new wonder. Still new enough to a world of light, the sheen of it on his right temple mirrors the luster of the joy and wonder inside and out in this, his newest revelation. I just really like that poem. It always reminds me of Margaret. So Margaret had been talking about it. And then Kathleen and I were friends. And on our walk down the pier road, we'd always say, should we join the writers' group? And we were a little bit daunted. But finally, we did join it. And it was a great thing to do. Even on the first day, we were made so welcome. Pete was so encouraging. And I remember thinking, he's such a fantastic listener. And he gave us a prompt, just a word. And we just sat there. And we wrote. And I discovered I could do it, very simply. But it was great. And so it continued on there since then, way back in 2010, I think. I find, with the writers' group, we've had so many great opportunities. The first book that I remember that I was involved with was called By the Lake. And we collaborated with Uchtdorf, which I was and am a member of. And we had an exhibition. And we wrote a book with the writers' group. And it was just a lovely book and a lovely experience. And so, of course, we've gone on to do a good few different books. And the one I think I have enjoyed most is the last one we did during COVID, which was Tell Me a Story, with the children in fourth class in the National School. And that was so much fun. We each shared our story, the beginning of our story, with three or four of the children in the school. And there were nine different stories. And, oh, it was wonderful. I think I would really have liked to have been one of those children. Oh, that's fantastic. But we could never have done that without the support we've got here from CLAN and from the GREPB and from Galway County Council, who have given us the money to do this. So we're very lucky. This is a haiku, a couple of haiku actually put together, just because I like them so much. They don't have a title, just haiku will do. So, miraculously, colour paints footprints everywhere with splashes of magic, brightening our lives, gently filling the dark spaces left open by fear. In spite of everything, our world continues to bloom. Beauty reigns supreme. My name is Tim Kershaw. I joined the Oosterraad Writers' Group five or six years ago. Home is a small farming village in England, but I've been coming to Oosterraad for 40 years now with my Irish-born wife, Nicky. Her family connections with this place go back at least as far as the 1820s. I'd written OK poetry, on and off, for years, but it's only since I joined the group that it's become a proper part of my life. Our tutor, Pete Mullineaux, is wonderfully astute and perceptive. He and the members of the group are the most welcoming, encouraging people you could hope to meet. Based in England, I could only join the meetings a few times a year. Covid changed that. Meetings moved on to Zoom, and I've been able to join in almost every week since, becoming very much part of the group rather than an occasional visitor. There's a real feeling of belonging now, of being part of a very special group of people. With the pandemic in the background, we're able to meet in person again, but we've kept Zoom, too, so that as many as possible can attend, and that's worked out well. The group's developed beyond the poem-a-week format, as Pete's encouraged us to write short stories or short pieces for radio and stage. We've had workshops with stimulating exercises in writing, reading and speaking. We've published books of our poems, and best of all, we've had fun producing a book of stories for children with enthusiastic contributions in words and pictures from the children at the local school. I like to think that it's done wonders for my poetry. I'm writing more, and sometimes better, than I ever was. The weekly prompt is a challenging but welcome discipline, bringing out the best in all of us. We're able to share our thoughts and feelings with real warmth and acceptance. And here's a poem I wrote about an orchard. The hedges hollow holds me basketed under its branches' tangle. I watch through a patchy screen of back-lit foliage, green and luminous. Light sweat sits salty on my lips. Save for a sudden flap and flutter as pigeons tread a courting dance, all's quiet in the rows and ranks of the orchard's apple-tree clones, I close my eyes and doze. And when I wake, I hear the hedge alive with drowsy sounds and tiny scurries, Two ambling flies, electric green, explore an arching bramble. Beetles in rids and lustrous armour quest through the twisted twigs and tunnelled litter of dead leaves, where threads of fungus twine white from the dark earth. My lair is laced by spiders, my hedgy shades scented with the freshness of new green and old brown mellow mustiness warmed by a dappled sun. I feel a touch, light as an eyelash. A wood-mouse nudges my startled toe, regards me eye to bright eye, and passes on. The day begins to dim, and now the rooks, rooks in their hundreds calling and cawing, pass low above me in a ragged thousand-bomber raid, as if the evening's darkening dome is spattered with shifting glimpses of black infinity beyond. The rook's roost beckons in the branches of high beaches. From nearby coppice hazels, wood-smoke scent and laughter draw me too, back to the campfire, back to conviviality. What a beautiful note to end with. I learned a huge amount about the importance of community groups through meeting with the up-to-ride writers. If you've been thinking about writing and are hesitant to try, let this be your sign to give it a go. Start writing today. Investigate if there are local writing groups in your locality. If not, why not contact your local resource centre and ask about setting one up. Who knows, perhaps a few years down the line you'll be celebrating your first publication. My sincere thanks to Pete and everyone involved. It was inspiring, enlightening, moving and simply just great fun. The writers' group would like to thank Galway County Council, the GRETB and the Clan Resource Centre for their support over the years. This podcast is dedicated to all up-to-ride writers' group members, past and present. Thanks again and take care. Thank you. You've been listening there to Up-to-Ride Writers' Group, a beautiful presentation put together by Katie Keneally, who sent that in. I'm very grateful to Katie. And Katie, you're very welcome to send us many, many more performances and pieces from Up-to-Ride Writers' Group. We have, of course, in our own area here, Clifton Writers' Group, Letter Frack Writers' Group has been very active over the years and we're more than happy to broadcast both pieces from live performances and also pieces put together in studio for our listeners and they always get a great response. That's all I have to say. Thank you very much for listening. That's all from me for this week. Be safe on the roads and be safe everywhere in this wet and windy weather over the next few days. It's Friday.
There are no comments yet.
Be the first! Share your thoughts.
