West Wind Blows - 18aug2024

This program is sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. It features poetry, songs, and stories. The first poem discussed is "The Song of Wandering Angels" by W.B. Yeats, which is about a search for love. Then, the song "Some Enchanted Evening" is played. The next segment is about the song "Kilkelly, Ireland," which tells the story of a father's letters to his sons who emigrated to America. The poem "Aunt Jennifer's Tigers" by Adrienne Rich is discussed, focusing on the unequal marriage between Aunt Jennifer and her husband. This program is kindly sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. Say goodbye to your old furniture and mattress in an affordable, convenient and sustainable way. Call 091-760-877. Hello again and welcome to the West Wind Blows, a weekly program of poetry, song and story. My name is Kathleen Faherty and Bridie Cashin is technician for the program. We'll begin with the poem by W.B. Yeats, The Song of Wandering Angels. This poem is typical of the Celtic twilight Yeats portrait. At one level, it could be about Angel from Irish mythology and his search for the love of his life. It's also a metaphor for Yeats' own search for love and for his dream of winning Morgon. He had first met her on the beach in the summer of 1870. He had fallen in love with her and now, at this point, he's optimistic of winning Morgon for his wife and looking forward to a life of heavenly bliss where they'll walk among long dappled grass and pluck till time and times are done. The love of his life will never die. Heavenly bliss where they'll walk among long dappled grass and pluck till time and times are done. The silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun. And now Dave O'Hollern will read The Song of Wandering Angels. W.B. Yeats, The Song of Wandering Angels. I went out to the hazel wood because a fire was in my head, and cut and peeled a hazel wand and hooked a berry to a thread, and then white moths were on the wing and moth-like stars were flickering out. I dropped the berry in a stream and caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire aflame, but something rustled on the floor and someone called me by my name. It had become a glimmering girl with apple blossom in her hair who called me by my name and ran and faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone and kiss her lips and take her hands and walk among long dappled grass and pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun. Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger, across a crowded room, and somehow you know, you know even then, that somewhere you see her again and again. Some enchanted evening, someone may be laughing, you may hear her laughing across the crowded room and night after night. As strange as it seems, the sound of her laughter will sing in your dreams. Who can explain it? Who can tell you why? Fools give you reasons, wise men never try. Some enchanted evening, when you find your true love, when you see her, call you across the crowded room and fly to her side and make her your own. Or else who, like you, may dream all alone. Once you have found her, never let her go. And that was Some Enchanted Evening, sung by Tammy Kenny with Brito Tool and Keyboard. And it's taken from the Connemara Community Radio CD, Come by the Hills. This is a double CD featuring all local singers, musicians and readers. It's truly a collector's item, and it's available in all local shops throughout Connemara, or you can contact the radio station on 09541616 or www.connemarafm.com. And now we have Anne-Marie McGowan reading Kilkelly, Ireland. Kilkelly, Ireland You can see the letters which inspired Peter Jones to write the song, and also Pat McNamara's diary here in this poem. Back in the 1970s or early 1980s, Peter Jones, an American-born composer whose great-grandfather was John Coyne from the general Kilkelly area, found a batch of old letters tied together in a box in the attic of his parents' home in America. These letters had all been posted in Kilkelly, and as he poured through them, he was overcome with the emotion which reunited him in an extraordinary way with the land of his forebearers. The end result of Peter's deliberations was Kilkelly, Ireland, the poignant story of a father who sees his sons emigrate from Mayo to America, never to return. But the words of friendship he so lovingly dispatched with the help of Pat McNamara, his friend, convey so much beauty and hidden heartache that they stand out in the classic mould. The words in the song are taken directly from Mr. Coyne's letters, as dictated to Pat McNamara, and thus carry a powerful resonance which cannot fail to touch the sight of people raised here in the rural West. A whole history of a family is unfurled before our eyes, and the song finishes with the remarkably touching lines of the brother at home finally taking over the father's duties in writing to the lad in America. And it's funny the way he kept talking about you. He called for you at the end. This song, which I'll recite as a poem, was first recorded here by Danny Doyle, and a number of other versions, including one by Jimmy Whittington from Charlestown, have also been put on albums. Peter Jones, the writer of the song, visited Kilkelly a few years ago, and he was honoured by the locals on that occasion. And my husband, Joe, is from Charlestown, so I'd like to recite Kilkelly for you. Kilkelly, Ireland, 1860 My dear and loving son John, Your good friend schoolmaster Pat McNamara's so good as to write these words down. Your brothers have all got to find work in England, the house is so empty and sad. The crop of potatoes is sorely infected, a third to a half of them bad. And your sister Bridget and Patrick O'Donnell are going to be married in June. Mother says not to work on the railroad, and be sure to come on home soon. Kilkelly, Ireland, 1870 My dear and loving son John, Hello to your missus and to your four children, may they grow healthy and strong. Michael's got in a wee bit of trouble, I suppose that he never will learn. Because of the darkness there's no turf to speak of, and now we have nothing to burn. And Bridget is happy you named a child for her, although she's got six of her own. You say you've found work, but you don't say what kind, or when you'll be coming home. Kilkelly, Ireland, 1880 Dear Michael and John, my sons, I'm sorry to give you the very sad news that your dear old mother has gone. We buried her down at the church in Kilkelly. Your brothers and Bridget were there. You don't have to worry, she died very quickly. Remember her in your prayer. And it's so good to hear that Michael's returning with money he's sure to buy land. For the crop has been poor and the people are selling at any price that they can. Kilkelly, Ireland, 1890 My dear and loving son John, I suppose that I must be close on eighty. It's thirty years since you've gone. Because of all the money you sent me, I'm still living out on my own. Michael has built himself a fine house and Bridget's daughters have grown. Thank you for sending your family picture. They're lovely young women and men. You say that you might even come for a visit. What joy to see you again. Kilkelly, Ireland, 1892 My dear brother John, I'm sorry I didn't write sooner to tell you, but father passed on. He was living with Bridget. She says he was cheerful and healthy right down to the end. Ah, you should have seen him play with the grandchildren of Pat McNamara, your friend. And we buried him alongside of mother down at the Kilkelly churchyard. He was a strong and a feisty old man, considering his life was so hard. And it's funny the way he kept talking about you. He called for you in the end. Oh, why don't you think about coming to visit? We'd sure love to see you again. And that was Christina McGowan on the tin whistle with An Law Su Ag An Corrig. Adrienne Rich, born in Baltimore, USA in 1929 and died in March 2012. She was of Jewish background and was the ultimate feminist. Much of her poetry focuses on women's role in society. The poem you're about to hear is called Aunt Jennifer's Tigers, and it's about the unequal relationship between a man and a woman in a marriage. The uncle in the poem is a symbol of male domination, and Aunt Jennifer has to suppress her own feelings and is unable to assert herself within the marriage. The poem goes, The massive weight of Uncle's wedding band Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand. So she compensates for her feelings of inadequacy and helplessness by embroidering tigers on a panel of tapestry. She creates an alternate world, an exotic world of pride, confidence, energy, self-assertion and colour. She embroiders brightly coloured tigers on a screen. The world that Aunt Jennifer has created will not, of course, change the real world in which she lives. She'll die as she has lived, dominated by a man in a male-controlled marriage. She'll be her husband's property, and she'll die unliberated. And the poem continues, When Aunt Jennifer is dead, Her terrified hands will lie Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by. One thing will survive, though. The tigers in the panel that she made Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid. The tigers that she made will live on as evidence of a hidden life and hidden desires. They will remain as a sort of act of defiance against a male-dominated society. And now Kathleen McDonnell will read Aunt Jennifer's Tigers. Aunt Jennifer's Tigers by Adrienne Rich Aunt Jennifer's tigers prance across a screen, Bright topaz denizens of a world of green. They do not fear the men beneath the tree. They pace in sleek, chivalric certainty. Aunt Jennifer's fingers, fluttering through her wool, Find even the ivory needle hard to pull. The massive weight of Uncle's wedding band Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand. When Aunt is dead, Her terrified hands will lie Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by. The tigers in the panel that she made Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid. Do you love an apple? Do you love a pear? Or do you love the laddie with the curly brown hair? And yet I do love him, I cannot deny him, And I will go with him wherever he goes. He stood in the doorway, pride in his mouth, Two hands in his pockets, he whistled me out. And yet I do love him, I cannot deny him, And I will go with him wherever he goes. He works in the factory for six bob a week, Oh, come Friday night, he'll come rolling home drunk. And yet I do love him, I cannot deny him, And I will go with him wherever he goes. Tell me, do you love an apple? Do you love a pear? Do you love the laddie with the curly brown hair? And yet I do love him, I cannot deny him, And I will go with him wherever he goes. Before I got married, I'd floored an apple, Before I got married, I'd floored an apple, But now the cradle gets in my way, And yet I do love him, I cannot deny him, And I will go with him wherever he goes. Before I got married, I wore a red shawl, Before I got married, I wore a red shawl, And yet I do love him, I cannot deny him, And I will go with him wherever he goes. Do you love an apple? Do you love a pear? Do you love the laddie with the curly brown hair? And yet I do love him, I cannot deny him, And I will go with him wherever he goes. Oh, yes, I do love him, I cannot deny him, And I will go with him wherever he goes. Do you love an apple? A song here by Eileen Kane. John B. Kane, playwright, poet and fiction writer, was born in Listowel, Co. Kerry, in 1928, and died in 2002. His best-known plays are Sighs, Sharon's Grave, Big Maggie and The Field. This piece you're about to hear is taken from John B. Kane's humorous writings. It's called Watery Eyes, and it's read by Debbie Ruddy. Watery Eyes by John B. Kane People who wear lonely faces are not necessarily lonesome people. Much the same applies to people who have watery eyes. We tend to think that these are teary eyes. The truth is that tears and eye water come from two different fountains. Do not ask me where those fountains are situated. All I can tell you is that they are in the neighbourhood of the noodle. Go to your doctor if you want exact information, but don't tell them I sent you. Watery eyes are just about the most priceless possession a man or woman can have in this little globular demeanour of ours. Since, unfortunately, it is a demeanour where hypocrisy is more abundant than charity, watery eyes can be greatly undervalued by those who are lucky enough to possess them. I myself do not possess watery eyes, except when there is a strong wind blowing into my face, or on rarer occasions when I am the victim of a head cold. My ancestors, however, were not deficient in the matter of eye water, and there was one particularly vicious relative who had a good word for nobody, but who was greatly liked and respected by his neighbours. They said that in spite of his scurrilous tongue, he had a great nature. Nature in those days was a ping no sensible man should be without. A man with nature, whatever else he might not have, was always accorded his respect, and if ever his neighbours were heard to criticise him, someone was always quick to point out that for all his faults he had great nature. This generally nipped the criticism in the bud. Anyway, this relative of mine was a great man for attending funerals. The only reason he went to funerals was to pass away the time. He did not like plays or pictures, and besides you had to pay good money before you were left inside the door of a playhouse or a cinema. Funerals cost nothing, and he never failed to express his delight when he heard somebody was dead. He had as little time for the dead as he had for the living. Ordinary people who were fond of criticising a deceased party when he was alive always stopped the practice when he was pronounced dead. There were two reasons for this. A dead man was harmless and therefore praise couldn't do him any good. Secondly, the louder the praise given at the dead man's wake, the greater the quantity of strong drink given to the bestower of the praise. But to get back to my relative, on the morning of the funeral he would shave and dress in his Sunday best. Always he would make his way to the front of the funeral where he would be seen by all the relatives of the deceased. He always walked with his head well bent and his hands behind his back. This sort of posture impressed everybody. At the gate of the churchyard he would proceed the coffin party to the grave and stand watching all those who came to pay their respects. Those who did not know him often mistook him for a detective. At the gravesite his eyes would begin to water. He could not keep it back and it often ran down the side of his face. He would produce his handkerchief and blow his nose. Then he would wipe the water away. I once heard a woman behind me say to another, God bless that man, but he is wonderful nature. As the water coursed down his face, others who were at the gravesite, particularly middle-aged women who were in no way related to the dead man, would sniff at the sight of him. These sniffs were the harbingers of genuine salt tears. They would look at my relative again and believing him to be genuinely crying would start off themselves. Soon every woman at the gravesite was crying. They could not stop even if they wanted to. Handkerchiefs appeared by the score and eyes were dried only to fill again from the inexhaustible well of tears owned by every woman. If there was a fresh breeze his eyes would really swim and very often sympathetic souls would come forward and place the hand of consolation on his shoulder. When he died he had a large funeral. It was dominated by women. All had a plentiful supply of handkerchiefs but they were never called upon to use them. Not a tear was shed because they had nobody to lead them. Their tear leader was no more and he who was the cause of so many was buried without a single tear in the end. I said there'd be no sorrow that I'd laugh when you walked away but a little bit of tear let me down spoiled my act as a clown I had it made up not to make a frown but a little bit of tear let me down. I said I'd laugh when you left me full of funny as you went out the door that I'd have another one with you and I'd wave goodbye as you go but a little bit of tear let me down spoiled my act as a clown I had it made up not to make a frown I had it made up not to make a frown but a little bit of tear let me down. Everything went like I'd planned and I really put on quite a show in my heart I felt I could stand till you walked with your grip through the door but then a little bit of tear let me down spoiled my act as a clown I had it made up not to make a frown but a little bit of tear let me down a little bit of tear let me down. And that was A Little Bit of Tear by Burl Ives The hugely popular writing series A Page in the Life ran on RTE the Marian Finucane Show throughout the 2004 and 2005 season featuring true life stories written by listeners to the programme about life and living in contemporary Ireland. This is one of the stories and it's called Cowardice and it's written by El Hengarty and read by Brian Tunder. Cowardice by El Hengarty I'm stuck at the traffic lights when I recognise her walk. Although it is December she's strolling along in a floppy skirt her bare legs still light brown left over from a faded summer. Her shoes are ready for the bin but her elegance makes up for them. She tosses back her beautiful hair a deep chestnut and I am furious to feel that little lurch hop somewhere between my heart and chest. She crosses the road without looking her olive-skinned face mischievous carrying several library books she must be heading home. All she needs for the holidays is in her arms. I could go round the block once more along the sea route that road is one way but I might catch her at the other end if the lights are green this time I could stop and say Hi Carla, would you like a lift? No, she's too near her little house. Hi, want to go for coffee? I've already had two strong ones and the anxiety is showing in the shaky movements of the steering wheel. Maybe if I stopped she'd just open the door and get in we could have a chat. Where are those cigarettes? There she is in the village coming out of the grocer. I could wave and beep the horn maybe. She's carrying a bag full of fruit she looks up with a ready smile and her hand half raised in the air. To wave she would have to carry fruit and books with one hand. The look of hurt is an age that shadows her prettiness. She drops her arm and passes the books back to the other hand. A walk changes as she crosses the road this time looking where she is going. I notice this from the rear view mirror as my courage drains away. I drive on. Hey, did you happen to see the most beautiful girl in the world? And if you did, was she crying, crying? Hey, if you happened to see the most beautiful girl that walked out on me tell her I'm sorry tell her I need my baby Oh, won't you tell her that I love her? I woke up this morning realized what I had done I stood alone in the cold late dawn and knew I'd lost my morning sun I lost my head and I said some things now come the hardest of the morning dreams I know I'm wrong, but I couldn't see I let my world slip away from me So, hey, did you happen to see the most beautiful girl in the world? And if you did, was she crying, crying? Hey, if you happened to see the most beautiful girl that walked out on me tell her I'm sorry tell her I need my baby Oh, won't you tell her that I love her? If you happened to see the most beautiful girl that walked out on me tell her I'm sorry tell her I need my baby Oh, won't you tell her that I love her? If you happened to see the most beautiful girl that walked out on me tell her I'm sorry tell her I need my baby And that was The Most Beautiful Girl by Charlie Rich Richard Cronley was born in Ballanderine, County Galway in 1828 and Ballanderine is a village in South Galway not far from Clern Bridge He joined the Dublin Metropolitan Police and spent his spare time in the Records Office where he studied old documents Without any assistance, financial or otherwise he found a publisher who was willing to give the result of his researches to the world He was working against time and died in the moments of success at the age of 35 He left behind a work that is remarkable The Long Black Hand a poem which tells of the slaying of a malicious spirit who made life miserable for the people of Ballanderine a few hundred years ago and now Mary Faherty will read The Long Black Hand by Richard Cronley The Long Black Hand In olden days when Seamus reigned and plenty crowned the land a sprite was seen in Killings Church it was called The Long Black Hand No traveller ever passed that way from setting sun till dawn but was by this vicious elf half-murdered on the lawn The church wherein it lay was built by Colman's son of Dua It lay three miles from Old Tyrone and two miles short from Clough Now Clough belonged to Andrew Lynch a man of large estates and yet he felt dissatisfied the church being near his seat Ten thousand pounds he would lay down and thirty hides of land to any man of Irish soil who would slay The Long Black Hand And with that too his daughter Kate a maid divinely fair whose golden tresses loosely hung adown her shoulders bare A lovelier maid you could not find if you searched the island door for she was styled as records tell the Rose of Ballymore Now this old elf was left at ease for six long years or more until Lynch's friends a visit paid to him in Ballymore As annals say there also came a bold and valiant knight who vowed to God he'd have revenge on Killian's churchyard sprite Now young O'Haydon of Inchicore for so the youth was called as annals say he scarcely was twenty summers old and yet he would not courage lack to face the hellish foe who spilt his father's precious blood and proved his overthrow The guests around the table sat and wine went round and round and Andrew Lynch's health was drank when he did thus respond My generous sirs and gallant knights why should I a life resign whence all of you toast my health and drink to me in mine and yet alas I cannot live I feel that death is near for the churchyard sprites will surely put an end to my career The old man then resumed his seat and tears flowed down his cheeks they knew the cause of all his grief and not one soul dared speak Each man would at the other gaze but none would raise refrain till young O'Haydon at last rose and broke the silent strain And now kind sir for me provide a steed both fleet and strong and I'll be off to Killian's church to search the rooms among And if the long black hand is there I'll die or revenge take upon that murdering hellish elf for my dear father's sake His sword he grasped in his right hand and mounting Lynch's deed and off to Killian's church he went to fall if fate decreed Arriving at the abbey gate Art thou within? he cried I am and soon will be with you the long black hand replied On hearing such unearthly sounds his gallant steed took fright his retrogressing pace to stop he pulled with all his might but curb and rain could not avail but lo what makes him stand the elf has seized him by the tail this hellish long black hand Our gallant knight well knew the cause and with one backward stroke he cut the long black hand across when thus the demon spoke Another cut my gallant knight if I survive you'll rue Oh no my friend the knight replied I think that one will do He posted off without delay and soon arrived at home and stabling there has dappled grey whose sides were white with foam In haste he joined the festive train in Lynch's genial hall where rival men were base enough to pray for his downfall Now young O'Haydon and Andrew Lynch went out to see the grey and ordering out his two stalwart grooms to him with oaths and hay But Pallador was now no more old Andrew Lynch's bride and some would say that to his tail the long black hand was tied Now Andrew Lynch addressed the guests our hero claimed his bride and by Macdongal's holy curb the nuptial knot was tied In peace they lived in peace they sleep amid tombs of ample space within lone Killeen's lonely walls that lonesome haunted place All night around the porn we the little people play and men and women passing will turn their heads away from break of dawn till moonrise alone it stands on high with twisted sprigs for branches across the winter sky They'll tell you dead men hung there its black and bitter fruit to guard the buried treasure around which it twines its root They'll tell you Cromwell hung them but that could never be He'd be in dread like others to touch the fairy tree But Katie Ryan saw there in some sweet dream she had the blessed son of Mary and all his face was sad She dreamt she heard him saying Why should they be afraid? Why should they be afraid? When from a branch of corn tree the crown thy wall was made From moonrise round the corn tree the little people play and men and women passing will turn their heads away But if your heart's a child's heart and if your eyes are keen you'll never fear the corn tree that grows beyond the heme And that was The Fairy Tree with Count John McCormack And now Michael Gannon will introduce the Irish section of this programme Welcome to the Gaelic Voice a little corner of the programme The West Wind Blows in which we will hear one or perhaps two poems in Irish every week and perhaps the English version of the poem if that is available The West Wind Blows in which we will hear one or perhaps two poems in Irish every week and perhaps the English version of the poem if that is available The West Wind Blows in which we will hear one or perhaps the English version of the poem if that is available The West Wind Blows in which we will hear one or perhaps the English version of the poem if that is 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middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the wilderness Thank you for listening Please tune in again next week same time to the West Wind Blows Bye for now Bye for now Bye for now