West Wind Blows 19may2024

This program is sponsored by Connemara Holiday Lettings. It features poetry, song, and story. The first poem, "The White Birds" by W.B. Yeats, was inspired by his love for Maud Gonne. The second poem, "Bingen on the Rhine," is about a German soldier dying in Algiers. The third poem, "Peeling the Potatoes" by Seamus Heaney, reminisces about a childhood memory of peeling potatoes with the mother while everyone else was at Mass. This program is sponsored by Connemara Holiday Lettings, your one-stop shop for all your holiday home rental needs, 095-22669. 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. Go maine díoguibh agus fáilte d'an guaoníoreg séadó. Cláir seachtainnúil, á ráan fílíoct agus scéal. Is misle Kathleen i atherta agus tá brídeiní cachéan ag túr cúnúil technúil. We'll begin the program with the poem by W.B. Yeats, The White Birds. After Maud Gonne refused Yeats's many marriage proposals to her, one day as they walked by the sea cliff, she idly remarked that if she were a bird, she'd choose to be a seagull. And that was the inspiration for this poem, The White Birds. In the third verse, he mentions the Danann shore. The Tuatha de Danann are the gods of ancient Ireland and their shore was Tír na nÓg, the country of the young, the Celtic paradise, a land of beauty where time stands still and no one grows old. And now Vincent Murphy will read The White Birds by W.B. Yeats. And it's from the Connemara Community Radio CD, Come by the Hills. The White Birds by W.B. Yeats was inspired by Maud Gonne, the love of his life. The White Birds by W.B. Yeats I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea. We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee. And the flame of the blue star of twilight hung low on the rim of the sky, has awakened in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die. A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose. I dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes, or the flame of the blue star that lingers, hung low in the fall of the dew. For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering foam, I and you. I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a donnan shore, where time would surely forget us, and sorrow come near us no more. Soon far from the rose and the lily, and fret of the flames would we be, were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea. I was a blackbird, I'd whistle and sing, and I'd follow the ship that my true love sailed in, and on the top of the hill I'd tear off my mask, and I'd tear off my head, on this blue white land. I am a young legend, and my story is sad, for once I was forsaid by a brave sailor lad. He courted me truly, by night and by day, but now he has left me and gone far away. I was a blackbird, I'd whistle and sing, and I'd follow the ship that my true love sailed in, and on the top of the hill I'd tear off my mask, and I'd tear off my head, on this blue white land. He promised to take me, to darn me good fare, to buy me red ribbons, to tie up my hair, and when he'd return from the ocean so wide, he'd take me and make me his own loving bride. If I were a blackbird, I'd whistle and sing, and I'd follow the ship that my true love sailed in, and on the top of the hill I'd tear off my mask, and I'd tear off my head, on this blue white land. His parents they slight me, and will not agree, that I and my sailor boy married to be, but when he comes home, I will greet him with joy, and I'll take to my blue arms my dear sailor boy. If I were a blackbird, I'd whistle and sing, and I'd follow the ship that my true love sailed in, and on the top of the hill I'd tear off my mask, and I'd tear off my head, on this blue white land. It's very appropriate that John should read this poem, because he can, to an extent, identify with the feelings of the young German soldier, who is the central character in the poem. John was a sergeant in the Irish Army, serving abroad, far from home, in the Lebanon, Cyprus and East Timor. The music accompanying the poem is The Funeral March by Chopin. Over now to John Craven. This is a poem by Caroline Norton, it's called Bingen on the Rhine, and it's about a German soldier of the French Foreign Legion, who was wounded and lay dying in Algiers, the capital of Algeria, I would imagine sometime around 1831 to 1835, so the poem would have been written sometime around then. A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers. There was a lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears. But a comrade stood beside him, while his lifeblood ebbed away, and bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, and he took that comrade's hand, and he said, I never more shall see my own, my native land. Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, for I was born at Bingen, at Bingen on the Rhine. Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around, to hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, that we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, full many a corpse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun. And mid the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, the death wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars. And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's mourn decline, and one had come from Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine. Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age, for I was still a truant bird that thought his home a cage. For my father was a soldier, and even as a child my heart leapt forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild. And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty horde, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword. And with boyish love I hung it, where the bright light used to shine, on the cottage wall at Bingen, calm Bingen on the Rhine. Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, when the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant thread. But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, for her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name, to listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, and to hang the old sword in its place, my father's sword and mine, for the honour of all Bingen, dear Bingen on the Rhine. There's another, not a sister, in the happy days gone by, you'd have known her by her merriment, that sparkled in her eye. Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning. O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning. Tell her the last night of my life, for ere the moon be risen, my body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison. I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine, on the vine-clad hills of Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine. I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, I heard, or seemed to hear, the German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear. And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, the echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still. And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk, down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk. And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, but we'll meet no more at Bingen, love of Bingen on the Rhine. His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak, his eyes put on a dying look, he sighed and ceased to speak. His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled, the soldier of the legion in a foreign land is dead. And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down, on the red sand of the battlefield, with bloody corpses thrown. Yet calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to shine, and it shone on distant Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine. And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, but we'll meet no more at Bingen, love of Bingen on the Rhine. And her little hand lay lightly, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to shine, and it shone on distant Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine. And her little hand lay lightly, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to shine, and it shone on distant Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine. And her little hand lay lightly, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to shine, and it shone on distant Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine. And her little hand lay lightly, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to shine, and it shone on distant Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine. And her little hand lay lightly, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to shine, and it shone on distant Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine. And her little hand lay lightly, And that was The Funeral March by Chopin. And now Janet O'Toole will read one of her favourite poems, Peeling the Potatoes by Seamus Heaney. And my poem is When All the Others Were Away at Mass by Seamus Heaney. It is one of the most popular poems and always is picked by people in a poll, polls of their favourite poems. And it is mine as well too because it tells about a child with their mother in the kitchen peeling potatoes when everyone else was at Mass. And it reminds me of my own childhood when we would go with my mother to First Mass at nine and then the others would go at 11.30 Mass and we would have the Sunday dinner in the middle of the day. And with that time would be spent peeling the potatoes and the carrots and getting ready for dinner. So this always reminds me of those times in the kitchen with my mother when all the others were away at Mass. When all the others were away at Mass, I was all hers as we peeled potatoes. They broke the silence, let fall one by one, like soldiers weeping off the soldering iron. Cold comforts sat between us, things to share, gleaming in a bucket of clean water, and again let fall. Little pleasant splashes from each other's work would bring us to our senses. So while the parish priest at her bedside went hammering tongues at the prayers for the dying, and some were responding and some crying, I remembered her head bent towards my head, her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives, never closer the whole rest of our lives. Perhaps love is like a resting place, a shelter from the storm. It exists to give you comfort, it is there to keep you warm. And in those times of trouble, when you are most alone, the memory of love will bring you home. Perhaps love is like a window, perhaps an open door. It invites you to come closer, it wants to show you more. And even if you lose yourself and don't know what to do, the memory of love will see you through. For love to some is like a cloud, to some as strong as steel, but some a way of living, but some a way to feel. And some say love is holding on, and some say letting go. And some say love is everything, and some say they don't know. Perhaps love is like the ocean, full of conflict, full of pain. Like a fire when it is cold outside, thunder when it rains. If I should live forever and all my dreams come true, my memories of love will be of you. And some say love is holding on, and some say letting go. And some say love is everything, and some say they don't know. Perhaps love is like the ocean, full of conflict, full of pain. Like a fire when it is cold outside, thunder when it rains. If I should live forever and all my dreams come true, my memories of love will be of you. And that was Perhaps Love, sung by Ray Flaherty with Angela Coyne, and it's from the Connemara Community Radio CD, Come by the Hills. Now with a poem by Joseph Mary Plunkett. The presence of God is read by Kathleen Villier-Churchill. Here is a deeply religious poem by Joseph Mary Plunkett, where the poet can see God, and especially Christ, and his sufferings, in the natural world around him, in rose, in rock, in the singing of birds, in trees, and in the sounds of the sea. The presence of God, Joseph Mary Plunkett. I see his blood upon the rose, and in the stars, the glory of his eyes. His body gleams amid eternal snows, his tears fall from the skies. I see his face in every flower, the thunder and the singing of the birds are but his voice, and carven by his power, rocks are his written words. All pathways by his feet are worn, his strong hearth stirs the ever-beating sea, his crown of thorns is twined with every thorn, his cross is every tree. Joseph Mary Plunkett O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder Consider all the worlds thy hand hath made I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder Thy power throughout the universe displayed Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee How great thou art, how great thou art Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee How great thou art, how great thou art When Christ shall come, with shouts of acclamation And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart When Christ shall come, with shouts of acclamation What joy shall fill my heart When I shall bow in humble adoration And there proclaim, my God, how great thou art Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee How great thou art, how great thou art Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee How great thou art, how great thou art And that was Anne-Marie Hickey with How Great Thou Art Anne-Marie comes from Derry, where she runs the Hickey School of Music and works at the Diocesan Catechetical Centre. She attended the McCarty School of Music and trained with Dr. Veronica Dunn in Dublin. This programme is sponsored by Connemara Holiday Lettings your one-stop shop for all your holiday home rental needs. 09522669 We have a story written by Brendan O'Scannell and it's called The Box. Now Bridie O'Neill will read the story. I had spent a wonderful morning going around the junk shops of Francis Street. I liked nothing better than rooting around in old tea chests and boxes. Seeing if I could come up with anything of interest. Jack's shop was going to be my last stop as I had to meet some friends later in the day. After all the searching, I needed to go home and wash and tidy myself up before going out. My search through this pile of junk had turned up a biscuit box covered with dust and rust. Hey Jack, where did you get this? I called out to the old man who was sitting in an old broken down chair. He looked up and said, I picked that up a few weeks ago in a house sale along the quays. There were a few nice pieces of furniture and a couple of strange ornaments. He turned his face back to the single bar electric heater which was doing its best to keep him warm. The brown and white terrier which had lay at his feet looked up at the sound of our conversation but lay its head back down as soon as we stopped talking. I wondered if it would be worth buying. As if he could sense what I was thinking, Jack said, It will probably shine up well enough. I'll let you have it for a fiver, if you want it. Five pounds was a bit steep I thought but it was the most promising find of the morning. I moved the box around to see if I could make out any details on the lid. I became aware that it was not empty. It was not as much that it was heavy but that something moved around inside. I was just about to say this to Jack when I stopped myself. He said a fiver. No need to let him know that there was something else inside. He would probably put up the price or else decide to open it. Here you are then, five pounds but I think you're asking too much. There is a fair bit of rust, it will probably fall to pieces when I begin working on it. Okay, give me three pounds since it's yourself that's buying. I wouldn't give it to anyone else for that price. I must be going soft in the head in my old age. I hurried home with the box and even though I was supposed to be getting ready before going out I felt a strange excitement and I decided to spend a short time working on the box. I had to see what I might find. Using a damp cloth, I cleaned the dust and grime off the top and was rewarded with some precious details. There was a picture of two little girls and their much-beribboned kittens. Underneath were the letters W.J. Jacob and Sons. The picture was in fairly good condition and I knew from the style that it was a biscuit box from the early 1900s. Having worked out that much I decided to spend a little more time in trying to open it. Again using the cloth, I wiped the rust most of which fell away easily but still I couldn't get the lid to open. Taking a small knife I worked the point around the edges so as not to damage it. Then using my fingers I succeeded in opening it a little and then finally the lid came away in my hand and I looked inside. There was a jumble of papers a few faded photographs tied up with old yellow in string a couple of postcards and a small green box. I picked up the postcards first. Old black and white scenes from Dublin. On turning them over I tried to read the spidery writing but gave up. On each card was a stamp with the head of some now long dead monarch. The date was hard to see. The photographs were even less interesting as they had almost faded to grey. I put these to one side with the postcards. I next took up the box which was made of cardboard. It was about two inches long and felt heavy. I opened it and discovered an Irish War of Independence medal. In surprisingly good condition. The Cú Chulainn carving was crisp and the ribbon in perfect order. Underneath this was a tiny photograph of a happy looking couple. I suspected that this was the owner of this medal and his wife. Did they also own the box? Putting this box down with the other items on the table I returned to the remaining contents of the box. There was a collection of letters tied with the same twine as around the photographs. A scattering of shirt studs and a pair of cufflinks and a few old coins. I looked at these and recognised the same head as on the stamps. George V. All that remained was an old faded paper bag through which some bright colours could be seen. Carefully opening this bag I drew out a collection of old Saint Valentine cards. Each card made up of lace doilies and colourful paper flowers. Delicate and refined with simple but sentimental verse included. So different from the gaudy brashness of today's cards. Only one of them had anything written on it. The message was simple. Kaplan, with all my heart. T. I pictured the scene. The old warrior giving a simple token to his wife. In the background I thought I heard the voice of the Count singing I'll take you home again Kathleen I'll take you home again Kathleen Across the ocean wild and wide To where your heart has ever been Since first you were my bonnie bride The roses all have left your cheeks I've watched them fade away and die Your voice is sad whenever you speak And tears redeem your loving eyes Oh I will take you back Kathleen To where your heart will feel no pain And when the fields are fresh and green I'll take you to your home Kathleen Hmmm I always feel when you are near That life holds nothing dear but you Oh I will take you back Kathleen To where your heart will feel no pain And when the fields are fresh and green I'll take you to your home Kathleen And that was I'll take you home again Kathleen By Slim Whitman And now we move on to a poem by Patrick Kavanagh This poem is called Epic In this poem Kavanagh is stating that for him the ordinary is the stuff of poetry that poetry can be made from the bits and pieces of life The title of the poem is interesting Epic We know that an epic is normally a long work of literature about some major event Here Kavanagh calls his fourteen line poem an epic and it's not about some great world event it's about a local row between two farmers For Kavanagh the dispute over half a root of rock is a fit subject for poetry The year is 1938 the year of the Munich Conference before the outbreak of World War II Kavanagh diminishes this major event He calls it the Munich bother Of course the local dispute was more immediate to Kavanagh and his neighbours than what was happening in Munich He does however have a momentary doubt about the importance of the ordinary I incline to lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gorting He wonders for a moment if ordinary local happenings are fit subjects for poetry Then he remembers that the great Greek poet Homer made the great epic, the Iliad, out of a local event Homer made the Iliad out of such a local row The whole point of the poem is it's not the event that matters it's the poem that matters The poem makes the ordinary event important, immortal The poet then is a sort of god a god in the sense that he can create that he can create something extraordinary out of the ordinary Kavanagh says gods make their own importance meaning that it is not the event that matters but what the poet does with it And now Anne-Marie McGowan will read Epic by Patrick Kavanagh The places mentioned in Epic, Ballyrush and Gorting are local areas quite close by to Inniskene Road where Patrick Kavanagh was born Epic by Patrick Kavanagh I have lived in important places times when great events were decided who owned that half a rude of rock an old man's land surrounded by our pitchfork, armed claims I heard the Duffies 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 Gorting 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 Long time ago said the fine old woman Long time ago This proud old woman did say I had four green fields Each one was a jewel Then strangers came And tried to take them from me I had five strong sons They fought to save my jewels They fought and died And that was their grief achieved Long time ago said the fine old woman Long time ago This proud old woman did say There was war and death plundering and pillage My children starve On mountain, valley and sea And their wailing cries They shook the very heavens My four green fields Ran red with their blood, said she What have I now said the proud old woman What have I now This proud old woman did say I have four green fields And one of them's in bondage And strangers' hands That tried to take it from me But my sons have sons As brave as were their fathers My four green fields Will bloom once again, said she That was Paddy Riley with Four Green Fields We'll move now to Seamus Heaney And the chosen poem here is The Forge Some people like to interpret this poem as a metaphor for the poet's creative process But it's also a memory poem When Seamus Heaney was growing up in Derry the forges were fading out In this poem, he's remembering a real forge Barney Devlin's forge in Hillhead Somewhere near Seamus Heaney's Mossbourne The poem is an absolutely powerful recreation of the forge of his childhood The poem begins All I know is a door into the dark And of course, children wouldn't be allowed into the forge anyway There's great detail in his descriptions The hammered anvil's short-pitched ring The unpredictable fantail of sparks A fantail likened to a peacock's tail Unpredictable because you wouldn't know in which direction the sparks might fly At the end of the poem, he describes how the blacksmith might look out at the passing traffic Rows of motorised vehicles marking the end of the old way of life and of his trade as a blacksmith And he is not impressed with all these new-fangled, state-of-the-art cars And the poem ends then grunts and goes in with a slam and flick to beat real iron out to work the bellows Now we listen to Seamus Heaney reading The Forge The Forge All I know is a door into the dark Outside old axles and iron hoops rusting Inside the hammered anvil's short-pitched ring The unpredictable fantail of sparks Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water The anvil must be somewhere in the centre Horned as a unicorn At one end square Set there immovable An altar where he expends himself in shape and music Sometimes leather-aproned Hairs in his nose He leans out on the jam Recalls a clatter of hoofs Where traffic is flashing in rows Then grunts and goes in With a slam and flick To beat real iron out To work the bellows Twenty years ago last Christmas Came a tempter to my wife Stole the only flower I cherished And I vowed I'd have his life In the street one day I met him In my eyes that villain grinned Then the curse of Cain came o'er me Was on that very day I sinned Sure I dream as the hammer strikes the anvil And I dream as the sparks ride on the floor Of my blue-eyed turtle star She's the only girl I love As she stood outside that good old smithy door Twelve months passed and came my trial In the court I saw my wife And I heard her beg for mercy When they sentenced me for life For twelve long years I've read her letters The only comfort I can tell When I heard that she was dying But then my lonely spirit fell Sure I dream as the hammer strikes the anvil And I dream as the sparks ride on the floor Of my blue-eyed turtle star She's the only girl I love As she stood outside that good old smithy door Late one night I dodged the waters O'er the prison walls I sprang Then got home but sore and weary At the breaking of the dawn She was glad to glad to see me In my arms that night she died Then the waters rushed to the doorway And they found me there inside Then they saw her lifeless body And I kneeling on the floor They said Jack my lad we trust you Come back when you've laid her low Sure I dream as the hammer strikes the anvil And I dream as the sparks ride on the floor Of my blue-eyed turtle star She's the only girl I love As she stood outside that good old smithy door And that was Foster and Alan with The Blacksmith. To take us to the end of the programme we'll take a track from the Connemara Community Radio CD Come By The Hills and this time it's Some Enchanted Evening with Tommy Kenny vocals and Brido Tool on keyboard. Some enchanted evening You may see a stranger You may see a stranger Across the crowded room And somehow you know You know even then That somewhere you'll 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? Who's 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 lie to her side And make for your own For all through your life you May dream all alone Once you have found her Never let her go Once you have found her Never let her go Well, we've come to the end of the program for this week. Thanks to all who contributed. Thanks to Bridie who produced the program. And thank you at home for listening. Please tune in again next week, same time, to the West Wind Blows. Bye for now. This program was sponsored by Connemara Holiday Lettings, your one-stop shop for all your holiday home-rental needs. 09522669 Connemara Holiday Lettings