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Here is Sunday’s early evening music & poetry programme ‘West Wind Blows’ with Kathleen Faherty. Broadcast Sunday the 9th of February 2025 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
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Details
Here is Sunday’s early evening music & poetry programme ‘West Wind Blows’ with Kathleen Faherty. Broadcast Sunday the 9th of February 2025 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
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Here is Sunday’s early evening music & poetry programme ‘West Wind Blows’ with Kathleen Faherty. Broadcast Sunday the 9th of February 2025 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
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This program is sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling and offers a sustainable way to get rid of old furniture. The program includes poetry, song, and story. The first poem is about the Solemn Novena in Galway City. It's about God's presence in everyone. An Amish Rug symbolizes a loving relationship. The song "I Heard the Bluebird Sing" is about a lifelong love. The poem Autobiography describes the author's childhood and the absence of his mother. The last piece is a fairytale about the destructive power of war. 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 producer and technician for the program. We'll begin the program with a poem by Michael Gorman. The name of the poem is The Solemn Novena. This poem is set in Galway City. The Solemn Novena is a nine-day religious event in Galway Cathedral. The Redemptorist Order has been conducting this major religious event for the past thirty years. It's estimated that about 10,000 people attend daily and it takes place in early February. This poem is essentially about the presence of God in each one of us. At one level it's about the various characters that inhabit Galway City but at a deeper level it's about God's presence in everybody from the exalted to the ordinary. Now Father Jimmy Walsh will read The Solemn Novena by Michael Gorman. The Solemn Novena by Michael Gorman. We renounce the devil, the enemy of our souls. We cast out impurities of all kinds. Christ was watching from the tabernacle and his glorious Father shone down upon us. We pledged greater fidelity for the future. When the boy first came to the hospital, I taught him a hurler with a black helmet on his head. He had a party piece, The Wild Colonial Boy. The head-basher, your mates are kneeling now on the pavement outside Woolworth's singing. It's hard to be humble. When it rains, it falls on the orange roof of a discarded post-office van where Skipper Cohen sleeps in alcohol, missing the roar of the guns, dreaming of a clear night in North Africa, the sand and stars, open spaces. And Fagin, Joe Fagin, best friend a man ever had, bravest soldier in the world, is step-dancing on the tables before they go into battle. Lord, I have loved the beauty of thy house, the place where thy glory dwells. Each morning you send out Henry Metal Vennie with the car maintenance manual and a copy of the highway code. He smooths the flow of traffic. You are the man roaring at the Esselstyne. You are the woman being followed by dogs. You are the bishop coming over the Salmonware Bridge, holding the monstrance under a canopy. You are also in the monstrance, leading the procession of city councillors with red fur-lined coats and purple hats. Lord, you are everywhere, and I am dizzy with redemption. If you ever go across the sea to Ireland, there may be at the closing of your days, you may sit and watch the moon rise over Claddagh, and see the sun go down on Galway Bay. Oh, the breeze a-blowing o'er the seas from Ireland are perfumed by the heather as they blow, and the women in the upland's digging pretties speak a language that the strangers do not know. Oh, the strangers came and tried to teach us their ways, and they scorned us for being what we are, but they might as well go chasing after moonbeams, or light a penny candle from a star. And if there's going to be a life hereafter, which somehow I know there's going to be, then I'll ask my God to make my home in heaven, in that dear land across the Irish Sea. Longley brings a gift to his wife. He has purchased the gift in the Amish area of Pennsylvania, and the Amish rug which he brings home to his wife is itself a symbol of a loving relationship that's natural, simple, beautiful and religious. The patchwork design of the rug is like the pattern of small fields that the Amish people work, and the rug is saying that their love is lasting and enduring, as lasting as the fields that its pattern represent. Sacred, religious like a cathedral window, love like a cathedral window lights up their lives. And now Kathleen McDonnell will read An Amish Rug. An Amish Rug by Michael Longley As if a one-room schoolhouse were all we knew, and our clothes were black, our underclothes black. Marriage, a horse and buggy going to church, and the children's silhouettes in a snowy field. I bring you this patchwork like a small holding, where I served as the hired boy behind the harrow. It threads the colour of cantaloupe and cherry, securing hay bales, corn cobs, tobacco leaves. You may hang it on the wall, a cathedral window, or lay it out on the floor beside our bed, so that whenever we undress for sleep or love, we shall step over it as over a flower bed. I met a girl out in the hills who gave my lonely heart a thrill, her beauty seemed just like a breath of spring. And when I looked into her eyes, I thought of blue as summer skies. And when I held her hand in mine, I heard the bluebirds sing. They sang of one dream, one dream is to love her. Will she marry, marry if she loves her. Will her heart beat, heart beat to the blue floor. Then evermore and when she's lonely, lonely is to hear her. When there's sadness, sadness is to hear her. Will they always, always be together, until in death we part. I courted her for months and then until she promised me we would wed, planned on being married in the spring. All through the long cold winter months, it seemed that spring would never come. And every gloomy winter day, I heard the bluebirds sing. They sang of waiting, waiting for the flowers. And of counting, counting every hour. Till the bluebirds, till the bluebirds came to welcome, into the world once more. And though we're waiting, waiting for the sunshine, we'll be taking, taking every storm cloud, that has gathered, gathered o'er the mountains, to keep us far apart. . And when at light spring passed the earth, we married in a village church. Our wedding seemed just like a dream come true. Though many years have come and gone, our love is still as new and strong. That's when I found her long ago, and still the bluebirds sing. They sing of loving you, loving every hour. That I'm married, married to my flower. We'll be happy, happy ever after. I think the day we met, and though we're older, our love is sweeter. We grow fonder, fonder of each other. We'll be sweethearts, and close together, until the end of time. And that was Isla and Al Grant with I Heard the Bluebird Sing. Louis McNeice wrote the poem Autobiography. I suppose this poem is an autobiography of Louis McNeice's childhood. By way of background, McNeice's father was a Presbyterian minister. When McNeice was five years old, his mother was admitted to a psychiatric hospital, and he never saw her again. There's a dramatic contrast here between the first and second part of this poem. The first part of the poem is happy and joyous. That was when his mother was with him. The second half is dark and gloomy. The child's sadness and longing for his mother is conveyed in the plaintive refrain, Come back early, or never come. One final thing about this poem. McNeice makes wonderful use of sound. Here, the hard R, N and D sounds convey a rather strict, unfeeling father. My father made the walls resound. He wore his collar wrong way round. This is in stark contrast to how he describes his mother. You'll hear the soft L and F sounds. My mother wore a yellow dress. Gentle, gentle, gentleness. Now, Anne-Marie McGowan will read Autobiography by Louis McNeice. Autobiography by Louis McNeice In my childhood, trees were green, and there was plenty to be seen. Come back early, or never come. My father made the walls resound. He wore his collar the wrong way round. Come back early, or never come. My mother wore a yellow dress. Gently, gently, gentleness. Come back early, or never come. When I was five, the black dreams came. Nothing after was quite the same. Come back early, or never come. The dark was talking to the dead. The lamp was dark beside my bed. Come back early, or never come. When I woke, they did not care. Nobody, nobody was there. Come back early, or never come. When my silent terror cried, nobody, nobody replied. Come back early, or never come. I got up, the chilly sun saw me walk away alone. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. Come back early, or never come. John Craven I heard my brother recite it several times. It was kind of a party piece of his, when he'd have a few drinks. It's a very interesting poem. It's basically a fairytale about a box that held all the accoutrements of war. It was chained up. Somebody opened it up. It ended up destroying the make-believe land of Hosea Bay. It's about, really, the pointless effects of war, and how easy it might be to stop all the wars that are going on around the world at the moment. Once upon a time, in the land of Hosea Bay, around about the wondrous days of yore, they came across a sort of box, bind up with chains, and locked with locks, and labelled, kindly do not touch, it's war. A decree was issued round about, and with a flourish and a shout, and a gaily coloured mascot, tripping lightly on before. Don't fiddle with that deadly box, or break the chains, or pick the locks, and please, don't ever mess about with war. Well, the children understood. Children happened to be good, and were just as good around the time of yore. They didn't try to pick the locks, or break into that deadly box, and never tried to play about with war. Mummies didn't either, sisters, aunts, nor grannies neither, because they were quiet and sweet and pretty in those wondrous days of yore. Well, very much the same as now, and not the ones to blame somehow for opening up that deadly box of war. But someone did. Someone battered in the lid and spilt the insights out across the floor. A sort of bouncy, bumpy ball made up of flags and guns and all the tears and the horror and the death that goes with war. It bounced right out and went bashing all about and bumping into everything in store. And what is sad and most unfair was that it didn't really seem to care much who it bumped, or why, or what, or for. It bumped the children mainly, and I'll tell you this quite plainly, it bumps them every day and more and more, and leaves them dead and burned and dying, thousands of them, sick and crying, because when it bumps, it's very, very sore. Now there's a way to stop the ball. It isn't very hard at all. All it takes is wisdom, and I'm absolutely sure we could get it back into the box and bind the chains and lock the locks, but no one seems to want to save the children anymore. Well, that's the way it all appears, as it's been bouncing round for years and years, in spite of all the wisdom whizzed since those wondrous days of yore, and the time they came across that box, bound up with chains and locked with locks, and labelled, Kindly do not touch, it's war. He's five foot two, and he's six feet four, He fights with missiles and with spears, He's all of thirty-one, and he's only seventeen, Been a soldier for a thousand years. He's a Catholic, a Hindu, an atheist, a Jain, A Buddhist and a Baptist and a Jew, And he knows he shouldn't kill, And he knows he always will, Kill you for me, my friend, and me for you. And he's fighting for Canada, He's fighting for France, He's fighting for the USA, And he's fighting for the Russians, And he's fighting for Japan, And he thinks we'll put an end to war this way. And he's fighting for democracy, He's fighting for the rest, He says it's for the peace of all. He's the one who must decide Who's to live and who's to die, And he never sees the writing on the wall. But without him, how would Hitler Have condemned him at Laval? Without him, Caesar would have stood alone. He's the one who gives his body As a weapon of the war, And without him, all this killing can't go on. He's a universal soldier, And he really is to blame, His orders come from far away no more. They come from here and there, And you and me, And brothers, can't you see? This is not the way we've put the end to war. Written by Robert Barras This story is one of the many true-life stories submitted to the Marion Finucane radio program a few years ago, and the story is read by Enda Oates. The Knockout by Robert Barras I don't drink coffee, but I've now ingested several litres of it on my heart as a galloping racehorse. I rub my bloodshot eyes and cling desperately to this racehorse's tail. It is the morning of the second night without sleep, and as the sun rises through the window, our giddiness is turning to panic. This is the real thing. There's no way back. A grey-haired middle-aged man with unlaid shoes enters the room. He wears the grumpiness of a man roused from his bed. Needle in hand, he mumbles earnest instructions, and I leap to attention. He is an expert. Had he told me to open the window and jump out through it, I'd be there now, splattered onto the car park. The nurse has a French accent, and her perfect bouffant bobs as she dispenses order to chaos. We're getting close now. I am sent to the corner like a scolded child to keep an eye on the heart monitor. It is fine before I go near it, but somehow feeding off my panic, it is soon flying up and down like the seismograph at the epicentre of an earthquake. I go back to fetching tissues and glasses of water. The French nurse calls the midwife. Her bright, beatific smile lights the room. My third of the day, she says. She is charged up on the pure energy of birthing babies and eats self-doubt for breakfast. The sleeves are rolled up, and the real business begins. I hear my own words of encouragement and realise that I am a man in a room of grannies sucking eggs. I watch the monitor. Fetch a glass of water, drink it all myself. Fetch another glass, hold hands, rub arms, and shout nonsensical, bungling words of encouragement. After twenty minutes, Houdini produces the object of our labours. I'm called forward out of the wilderness of water-fetching and monitor-watching to cut the rubbery cord. My wife and I communicate our delight with laughter and shock. After nine months of hard work, she is exhausted, out of breath, ecstatic with our first baby. She wonders what to do next. In a few minutes, Houdini hands me a blue bowl of cotton-wrapped bawling noise. The bundle is lighter than I could believe and the crying is louder than I could imagine. I wonder what to do next. Nobody comes to tell me. This is serious. I slump down in a chair with my blue cotton bundle. The greatest moments video recorder in my head begins to record automatically. Thankfully so, because I am somewhere else, socked in the jaw and knocked out by the beauty of life. A star fell from heaven right into my heart. A brighter star I know I've never seen. Then I found out that it was only you and all your charms who came into my life to cut clean A fallen star, that's what you are. The twinkle in your eye came from the sky. You must have strayed from the Milky Way. A fallen star, that's what you are. A fallen star, that's what you are. That twinkle in your eye came from the sky. You must have strayed from the Milky Way. A fallen star, that's what you are. It was Jim Reeves with A Fallen Star. Kavanaugh's mother died in 1949 and in the week that she died he wrote a beautiful poem to her. It's a marvellous tribute to all her loving qualities. Now we listen to Joe McGowan reading In Memory of My Mother by Patrick Kavanaugh You will have the road gate open, the front door ajar, the kettle boiling, and a table set by the window looking out at the sycamores. And your loving hearts lying in wait for me coming up among the poplar trees. You'll know my breathing and my walk. And it will be a summer evening on those roads lonely with leaves of thought. We will be choked with the grief of things growing, the silence of dark green air, life too rich, the nettles, docks and thistles, all answering the prodigal's prayer. You will know I am coming, though I send no word. For you were lover who could tell a man's thoughts, my thoughts, though I hid them. Through you I knew woman, and did not fear or spell. As I walk the road from Killershamrock weary I sit down first twelve long miles around the lake to get to Cavantown. So up there and the road I go once seemed beyond compare. Now I curse the time it takes to reach my Cavendale's fair. The autumn shades are on the leaves, the trees will soon be bare. Each red gold leaf around me see the color of her hair. My gaze retreats deep by my feet and once again I sigh for the broken proof of sky reminds the color of her eyes. At the cabin promised each Sunday morning there she can be found. And she seems to have the eye of every boy in Cavantown. If my look will hold I'll have the golden summer of her smile. And to break the heart of cabin men she'll talk to me a while. So then Sunday evening fight me hard till I shan't rebound. To work the week till I return to court in Cavantown. When I said she would be my bride at least she'd not said no. So then Sunday morning bow to my son and back to her I go. And that was Cavern Girl with Michael English. We have a very cheerful poem full of the joys of spring. Colleen Curran will read February Thoughts by the American poet Iris Heselden. February Thoughts A time of looking forward as winter slips away. The crocus lifts her cheerful head and there's a longer day. The new year lies behind us, our resolution's gone. But we will cherish hopes and dreams as time keeps moving on. And soon March winds will herald spring, soft green touch every tree. The daffodils will sway and dance, a joy for all to see. But until then through frost and fog spread February gloom. Be optimistic in your heart and watch the springtime bloom. When it's springtime in the Rockies I'll be coming back to you. Little sweetheart of the mountains with your bonnie eyes of blue. Once again I'll say I love you, yes I love you, while the birds sing all the day. When it's springtime in the Rockies and the Rock is far away. Once again I'll say I love you, yes I love you, while the birds sing all the day. When it's springtime in the Rockies and the Rock is far away. And the Rock is far away. And that was When It's Springtime in the Rockies by Slim Whitman. Mary Faherty will read a story written by Pat Lawless and it's called Macushla. Macushla by Pat Lawless I felt a bit relieved that the woman sitting by the window smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of Guinness was not the woman I was looking for. I had just entered the Bunch O' Grapes public house on Quay Street hoping to see an old flame from forty years ago. I called for a beer and sat by the bar facing toward the window in the hope of seeing her. I had made enquiries and was told that Marie Buckley often spent Thursday afternoons in this establishment. She and I had been an item in our early twenties and I had not seen her in a long time. Back then she was a dark-haired beauty with a sparkle in her eyes and we were in love. What are you looking at, mister? said the old woman by the window. Sorry, I said. I didn't mean to stare. I was just looking out at the street hoping to see someone I used to know. No need to be sorry, she said. Why don't you join me and we'll look together? I sat in the chair opposite the woman. She had short, grey, dishevelled hair and was wearing a faded navy blue coat. Her fingers were nicotine yellow as were her teeth. She could have done with a good wash. What's your name, mister? Mine's Rose. And who are you waiting for? I told her my name was Patrick and I put my business card on the table. She ignored it. I told her I was hoping to catch up with an old girlfriend. She didn't say anything for a while. Then she said, You can buy me a drink, Patrick. A ball of malt with a Guinness chaser. I beckoned to the barman and he bought the drinks. She downed a whisky in one shot and then went halfway on the Guinness. She tapped the glass with her finger as if to say fill him again. The barman obliged and the whisky went like the first one. I thought to myself, What have I let myself in for? Tell me, she said. Tell me about this girlfriend that you're looking for. And why are you looking for her now? I told her that she was named Marie and that we'd been madly in love and were to marry. But times were different back then and there was nothing in Ireland for us except immigration. What happened to breaking up if you were so mad about each other? She said. I explained that I had been in New York all those years. I had married but was now a widower with three grown daughters and grandkids. Look at you, she said, with grandchildren. I had a son once. He'd be nearly forty now if I knew him, wherever he is. The nuns took him from me and I never saw him again. She sat quietly for a few minutes and finished her drink. Then she spat the words out. But why did you let this girl down if you were so in love? Were you just a user, like all other men? I was never a user. We were in love. We should have married, but we had no money. When I went to the States in 1965, the plan was that she would follow when I settled in a job and could afford to pay for her fare out. So what happened? Rose said. I wrote after a month or so when I got a job in an apartment, but my letter was returned, along with a note from her mother telling me that Marie had moved away and didn't want to hear from me again. I wrote again and again after that but with no reply. You broke her heart. That's what men do. Time and time again I've seen it, grand notions and false promises. You used her and just got tired of her. Get me another drink, will you? I knew I was getting nowhere with this hard-nosed woman who seemed to hate men. I got her that drink and said, It's time I moved on. I'm heading back home tomorrow. Tell me, Rose said. Why are you looking for this woman anyway? I guess it was just to see what I'd missed. Kind of like having an itch that won't go away, I said. Well, I think that Marie one lost out on you, Rose said as her demeanour softened and she smiled. Just then, and for whatever reason, I felt sorry for this woman sitting by herself in a bar on a busy street on a summer evening. As I paid my bar bill, I kept a fifty in my hand and pushed it into her hand as I said goodbye. I am a Cushla. Thank you, she said. As I walked out the door, I remembered that the only person who ever called me that was Marie Buckley. I stopped but did not look back. I just realised that her mother always called her Marie Rose. I froze. My heart was pounding as the reality hit me. As I passed the window outside, I took one last look at the girl I used to know. She was looking at my business card and smiling to herself. She kissed the card and put it in her pocket. I am a Cushla. Thank you, she said. As I walked out the door, I remembered that the only person who ever called me that was Marie Buckley. I stopped but did not look back. I just realised that the only person who ever called me that was Marie Rose. I froze. My heart was pounding as the reality hit me. I froze. My heart was pounding as the reality hit me. I just realised that the only person who ever called me that was Marie Rose. I froze. My heart was pounding as the reality hit me. I just realised that the only person who ever called me that was Marie Rose. I froze. My heart was pounding as the reality hit me. I froze. My heart was pounding as the reality hit me. I just realised that the only person who ever called me that was Marie Rose. I froze. My heart was pounding as the reality hit me. I just realised that the only person who ever called me that was Marie Rose. I froze. It's on days like these that I remember singing songs and drinking wine while your eyes play games with mine. On days like these I wonder what became of you. Maybe today you're singing songs with someone new. I'd like to think you're walking by those willow trees remembering those hours we knew on days like these. It's on days like these that I remember singing songs and drinking wine while your eyes play games with mine. On days like these I wonder what became of you. Maybe today you're singing songs with someone new. Questi giorni quando vieni il bel sole. Il bel sole. La la la la la la la la la la la la la And that was Matt Munro on days like these. John Quinn is a writer, composer and former primary school teacher. He retired from RTE Radio in 2002 after a distinguished career lasting 27 years. He now lives in Stradbelly North, Clernbridge. His books are available in Charlie Burns Bookshop in Middle Street, Galway. Now we listened to John Quinn reading an extract from his book, Moments. And this is called Funny You Should Say That. Funny you should say that? What's the funniest sentence you've ever read? A difficult question. Humour is such a subjective thing. Like beauty, it's in the eye of the beholder. I am currently rereading The Catcher in the Rye and there are undoubtedly a few gems in there. I always liked Spike Milligan's request that his epitaph be I told you I was ill. But the sentence that really bowls me over turned up in a most unlikely place. In David McCullough's excellent biography of John A Costello, The Reluctant Taoiseach. Costello's father came from County Clare and he loved telling his family stories about that county, particularly about the famed West Clare Railway. Indeed, he claimed a printed notice in one station outlined a revised timetable and ended with a warning that there will be no last train. Only in Ireland, and especially only in West Clare, could someone come up with a surreal statement like there will be no last train. I laugh as I write those six words. 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