West Wind Blows 9june2024

This program is sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling and offers a sustainable way to dispose of old furniture. The show features poetry, song, and stories. This week, they celebrate WB Yeats' 150th anniversary with readings of his poems. They also discuss Derek Mahon's poem about Captain Oates' self-sacrifice in Antarctica. They explore Seamus Heaney's poem about Irish bogland and Louis MacNeice's autobiography poem. 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. Continuing with our celebration of the 150th anniversary of the birth of WB Yeats, our guest this week, Mary Ruddy, will read her favourite Yeats poem, which is When You Are Old. I chose the following WB Yeats poem, When You Are Old, because it brings to mind a dear friend of mine, Mary Cafferkey, who had an illustrated copy of this poem hanging in her kitchen where I spend many a happy evening. Mary died in 2002 and a line from this poem, Loved the Pilgrim's Soul in You, is on Mary's headstone. When You Are Old When you are old and grey and full of sleep and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep. How many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true. But one man loved the pilgrim's soul in you, and loved the sorrows of your changing face. And bending down beside the glowing bars, murmur, a little sadly, how love fled, and paced upon the mountains overhead, and hid his face amid a crowd of stars. The sun is down, the moon is blue, I think they know that I'm missing you. But time will heal this heart that pains, as soon as I see you again. The sun is down, the moon is blue, I think they know that I'm missing you. But time will heal this heart that pains, as soon as I see you again. I see an island, your arm is here, I see you crying in the misty air. You look so lonely, and there's no one near. Wish I could hold you, wish you were here. The sun is down, the moon is blue, I think they know that I'm missing you. But time will heal this heart that pains, as soon as I see you again. Look out of your window, when you're feeling blue, you'll see a bluebird looking in at you. Lay down your head, let yourself be free, take in your deepest breath, and sing with me. Look out of your window, when you're feeling blue, you'll see a bluebird looking in at you. Lay down your head, let yourself be free, take in your deepest breath, and sing with me. And that was Cathy Ryan with Sláinne Walle. Derek Mahon wrote the poem Antarctica. It's a celebration of heroism, self-sacrifice and love. The poem is inspired by the story of a famous person and a real event. It's about Captain Laurence Oates, a member of Scott's team on the expedition to the South Pole in 1912. Laurence Oates, in whose frostbitten feet gangrene had set in. And he didn't want to slow down the progress of his companions back to the base camp. So he heroically and generously sacrificed himself in the hope that he would help his companions to survive. He just remarks, I am going outside and maybe sometime. He was never seen again. The self-sacrifice of Oates enabled the three men to push on. And there was a possibility that in spite of their extreme exhaustion, they might cover the 30 miles to the food supplies at One Ton Depot. However, a heavy blizzard held them up, 11 miles from the depot. And unable to proceed, the three men perished on the 29th of March 1912. Oates' body was never found. Near the site of his death, they erected a cairn and cross, bearing this inscription. Hereabouts died a very gallant gentleman, Captain L.E.G. Oates of the Innisfil and Dragoons, in March 1912. Returning from the pole, he walked willingly to his death in a blizzard, to try and save his comrades, beset by hardships. Now we listen to a recording of Antarctica by Derek Mahon. And the poem is read by Pat Kinney. And it's taken from the CD Voices and Poetry of Ireland. I am just going outside and maybe sometime. The others nod, pretending not to know. At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime. He leaves them reading and begins to climb, goading his ghost into the howling snow. He is just going outside and maybe sometime. The tent recedes beneath its crust of rime, and frostbite is replaced by vertigo. At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime. Need we consider it some sort of crime, this numb self-sacrifice of the weakest? No, he is just going outside and maybe sometime. In fact, forever. Solitary enzyme. Though the night yield no glimmer, there will glow at the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime. He takes leave of the earthly pantomime, quietly knowing it is time to go. I am just going outside and maybe sometime. At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime. Every road through life is a long, long road, filled with joys and sorrows too. As you journey on, how your heart will yearn for the things most dear to you. With wealth and love to sow, but onward we must go. Keep right on to the end of the road, keep right on to the end. Though the way be long, let your heart be strong, keep right on round the bend. Though you're tired and weary, still journey on, till you come to your happy abode. Where all you love, you've been dreaming of, will be there at the end of the road. With a big stout heart to a long steep hill, we may get there with a smile. With a good kind heart and an end in view, we may cut short many a mile. So let courage every day be your guiding star always. Keep right on to the end of the road, keep right on to the end. Though the way be long, let your heart be strong, keep right on round the bend. Though you're tired and weary, still journey on, till you come to your happy abode. Where all you love, you've been dreaming of, will be there at the end of the road. And that was Keep Right On to the End of the Road with Kenneth McKenna. We have a poem by Seamus Heaney, Bogland. The poem opens with an image of the great American prairies stretching away to distant, well-defined horizons. Horizons that seem to slice the setting sun in half. The vast scale of the American prairies stretching away to the distant horizon are a metaphor for the American pioneering spirit. The American tradition of opening up new frontiers, new outlooks, new history. The very landscape stretching into the distance invites this pioneering approach to life. Here in Ireland, our bogland is different. Our horizons are closer. Everywhere the eye concedes to encroaching horizon. So we focus inwards rather than outwards. We are drawn inward by our landscape, unlike the Americans who are drawn outward by their expansive prairies. Our bogland, our unfenced country, is forever crusting. New layers are constantly being laid down. And between the layers lies our history, our traces of former habitation. The bogland is not just bogland. It's our historian. It preserves our past. It preserves our past. Bogland is a preservative just as history is. And like history, it yields up the past when we dig into it. It yielded up the skeleton of the great Irish elk. Our bogland is such a great historian that it preserved butter, undamaged, salty and white, for more than a hundred years. The soft bogland, melting and opening underfoot, is inviting us, coaxing us to dig down into our past, to explore our past. And as people, that's what we tend to do. And as we dig into our past, we find traces of our ancestors. Each layer has been camped on before. And we too are only campers passing through. Leaving traces which the kind bog will preserve for future times. The potential for travelling back presented by the bogland seems endless. The wet centre is bottomless. Our history is intensive because we live and relive it. That's part of our richness as a people. And now we listen to Seamus Heaney, reading his own poem, Bogland. And it's from the CD, Collected Poems of Seamus Heaney. Bogland, we have no prairies to slice the big sun at evening. Everywhere the eye concedes to encroaching horizon, is wooed into the cyclops' eye of a tarn. Our unfenced country is bog that keeps crusting between the sights of the sun. They've taken the skeleton of the great Irish elk out of the peat, set it up an astounding crate full of air. Butter sunk under more than a hundred years was recovered salty and white. The ground itself is kind black butter, melting and opening underfoot, missing its last definition by millions of years. They'll never dig coal here, only the waterlogged trunks of great firs, soft as pulp. Our pioneers keep striking inwards and downwards. Every lair they strip seems camped on before. The bog holes might be Atlantic seepage. The wet center is bottomless. Home is heard, a discouraging word, and the skies are not cloudy all day. I've often at night, when the heavens were bright, and the lights from the glittering stars. How I stood there amazed, and asked as I gazed, if their glory exceeds that of ours. Home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play. Where seldom is heard, a discouraging word, and the skies are not cloudy all day. And that was Home on the Range with Marty Robbins. We have a poem by Louis MacNeice, Autobiography. I suppose this poem is an autobiography of Louis MacNeice's childhood. By way of background, MacNeice's father was a Presbyterian minister. When MacNeice 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. MacNeice 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 S sounds. My mother wore a yellow dress. Gentle, gentle, gentleness. Now Anne-Marie McGowan will read Autobiography by Louis MacNeice. Autobiography by Louis MacNeice. In my childhood, trees were green and there was plenty to be seen. 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. 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. 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. And now, Mary Faherty will read one of those letters. John Steinbeck, born in 1902, was one of the most acclaimed authors of his generation, responsible for a body of work that boasts, most notably, The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden, and Of Mice and Men, all classics which have been read and adored by many millions in all corners of the globe, and which resulted in Steinbeck being awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1962. Four years before that happened, his eldest son, 14-year-old Thomas, wrote home from boarding school and told of Susan, a young girl for whom he believed he had fallen. Steinbeck replied the same day with a wonderful, heartfelt letter of fatherly advice on the subject of love that couldn't have been more fitting. Dear Tom, We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and, of course, Elaine will from hers. First, if you are in love, that's a good thing. That's about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don't let anyone make it small or light to you. Second, there are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing, which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you, of kindness, consideration and respect. Not only the social respect of manners, but the greater respect, which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak, but the second can release in you strength and courage in goodness, and even wisdom you didn't know you had. You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply, of course it isn't puppy love. But I don't think you are asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you want me to help you with is what to do about it, and that I can tell you. Glory in it, for one thing, and be very glad and grateful for it. The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it. If you love someone, there is no possible harm in saying so, only you must remember that some people are very shy, and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration. Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also. It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned, for one reason or another, but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good. Lastly, I know your feeling, because I have it, and I'm glad you have it. We will be very glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements, because that is her province, and she will be very glad too. She knows about love too, and maybe she can give you more help than I can. And don't worry about losing. If it is right, it happens. The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away. Love, Fah. Something tells me I'm into something She's the kind of girl who's not too shy And, like a bell, I'm her kind of guy She dances close to me like I hope she would She dances with me like I hope she would Something tells me I'm into something, girl Something tells me I'm into something I could only dance for a minute or two Then she starts to move to me, the whole night through Can I keep falling in love? She's everything I've been dreaming of I walked home and she held my hand I knew it couldn't be just a one-night stand So I asked to see her next week, and she told me I could I asked to see her and she told me I could Something tells me I'm into something, girl Something tells me I'm into something Something tells me I'm into something Ah Ah I walked home and she held my hand I knew it couldn't be just a one-night stand So I asked to see her next week, and she told me I could I asked to see her and she told me I could Something tells me I'm into something, girl Something tells me I'm into something Something tells me I'm into something, girl Something tells me I'm into something good Oh yeah Something tells me I'm into something good Something good For all your holiday home rental needs, 095-22-669 I'm Into Something Good was sung there by Herman's Hermits And now, Colleen Curran will read In Flanders Fields by John McRae And this is from the Connemara Community Radio CD, Come By The Hills This poem, In Flanders Fields, was written by the Canadian Army Physician John McRae while treating the wounded at the Battle of Yee in the spring of 1915 McRae was killed in action in 1918 In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place, and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below We are the dead, short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow Loved and were loved, and now we lie in Flanders Fields Take up our quarrel with the foe To you from failing hands we throw the torch Be yours to hold it high If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders Fields Old Rosie Atkinson lives all alone In her house at the end of our street She wears an old hat with a long silver pin And a plaited blue shoes on her feet And a long flowery dress that must have looked nice On the day her love marched away To fight in the war, to end all the wars In a cold land so far, far away Rosie he's gone now, he's not coming home now Like all those lonely young men Their fathers and brothers, their sons and their lovers They've fallen like leaves in the wind Now the war has long passed, she never returned And the years have now faded her eyes But the love in her heart is as warm and as strong As it was when he made her his bride In Flanders Fields where the red poppies grow In the hearts of many young men There sleeps Rosie's lover of long, long ago She never did see him again Rosie he's gone now, he's not coming home now Like all those lonely young men Their fathers and brothers, their sons and their lovers They've fallen like leaves in the wind Now old Rosie Atkinson lives all alone In her house at the end of our street And the children make fun of her long flouty dress And the faded blue shoes on her feet Though they laugh and they jive at her funny old ways She seems not to hear, not to see She just dreams of the love she was never to know And the times that were never to be Rosie he's gone now, he's not coming home now Like all those lonely young men Their fathers and brothers, their sons and their lovers They've fallen like leaves in the wind Leaves in the wind That was Leaves in the Wind with Peter Carey, vocals and guitar and it's also from the Connemara Community Radio CD Come by the Hills We have a story by Joe O'Donnell and it's called Wasps and Debbie Ruddy will read the story Wasps by Joe O'Donnell Eventually I had to admit that she was right There was a buzzing, and it did seem to be in the attic Or the unfinished attic For days she'd been saying There's something up there, some insect or bee or something trapped I can hear the buzzing For days I'd doubted But that night it made itself heard A low buzzing, more hum really than buzz I promised I'd have a look at it in the morning Our attic, or what we refer to as the attic is rather difficult to get into It's really no more than a trap door in the ceiling Nailed shut this What? Six months, eight? No, ten months We were getting the attic converted The time grants were available Everybody was getting an attic conversion Moira had just had Jennifer, our first baby The baby was eight months old That's it, it was ten months ago The builders had moved in Two young, strong lads who made a hole in the ceiling And created noisy havoc for a few days Except when they had their tea break Then one of them, we never knew which one Would play slow airs on a tin whistle That's the thing I remember about that time The slow airs Of course, the only reason I remember that Was because Jennifer died The baby died just like that I mean literally just like that Caught dead Inexplicable, they told us No real explanation, they said And most certainly nothing to blame yourself with, they said We stopped the builders They were most understanding Said they'd come back whenever we decided They put a trap door on the unfinished conversion And nailed it shut Funny thing that I hadn't thought of it for some time now Of course you never forget Not something like that ever But I hadn't really thought about it Until Moira said about the wasps Then I could almost hear the tin whistle And the bang of the hammers The buzz and whine of their power drills Seems to have returned In the night A droning carpet on the threshold of sleep Ready to be pulled from under you Ready to tip you headlong into a nightmare Morning I pulled the steps in from the garage And lined them up under the trap door Probably a couple of wasps Got themselves caught there, I said Armed with a torch and a claw hammer I went up the steps I'm not the greatest one for going up a ladder Any ladder I feel particularly vulnerable Steps make me feel unsteady Especially if I've anything in my hands A shears, a paintbrush Or in this case a hammer and a rubber cased torch The nails did not come out easily Moira held the end of the steps as I yanked them They squeaked out reluctantly Good six inch nails The heads painted over with the ceiling paint The shanks still silver shiny After their ten months internment The trap door was hinged crudely at one side The paint had hardened along the edges And I had to use my elbows and the full weight of the hammer To bang the trap door up Suddenly it gave and I faced a large open space For only one minute I think what startled me was the sudden rush of sound That's the only way to describe it A cataract of buzzing poured from the black gap The darkness was alive and palpable It startled me and I hauled it shut I looked down to say something to Moira Her face upturned, shocked, pale I scrambled down the ladder and put my arms around her She was trembling It's okay love, it's okay What is it? she whispered hoarsely Seems to be quite a few of them up there A lot actually, I'll have another look Moira clung to me I'll be very careful I said, very careful I climbed the ladder and gently eased the trap up an inch or two This time more than sound poured from the trap Wasps swirled through the opening I dropped the trap and jumped off the ladder Moira was already beating them away Those that didn't escape we killed Over a cup of coffee we took stock There was no question but the wasps had taken up residence In our unfinished attic It didn't take long to find out how they got in Outside over the boiler house there was a crack under the gutter Host to the goings and comings of an endless stream of wasps Hell bent on God alone knows what sort of business The yellow pages had four and a half columns of pest exterminators Between the personal development courses on page 542 And pet foods on page 544 We picked one at random, though it wasn't quite random We were impressed by the drawings on the display advertisement Which showed hooded and gowned operatives with high-tech backpacks They offered quick, clean extermination without fuss The £20 fee didn't seem excessive I agreed and was assured that their team would be with us By half past six Monday evening It was a long weekend Moira, quiet, scared of passing down the hall under the trapdoor I tried to make jokes, rapping at the trapdoor from time to time Hey you guys, start saying your prayers, your hours are numbered Sunday evening I watched from outside Over the boiler house the activity was endless In and out, endless Moira, who'd gone into herself somewhat since Jennifer died Seemed now to have pulled the trapdoor shut She scarcely spoke for 72 hours We waited on Monday, like children Would the exterminators arrive in a heavily-plated armoured vehicle Descending with a cumbersome gate Encased in silver-grey spacesuits, heavy boots And with chrome-silver gas tanks strapped to their backs Would they ask us to leave the house, to return in an hour or two About ten minutes later A battered Volvo drove up And a heavily-built man wheezed himself onto the pavement He wore a shabby grey suit with a tight waistcoat He introduced himself Borrowed my torch and my stepladder And cautiously lifted the trap He poked his head in, shone the torch Lazily batted off a dozen wasps who stormed out And then slammed it shut Jesus, Mrs, he said to Moira You've the full lash there, and no mistake Will it be difficult, I asked I was thinking that maybe this was merely a preliminary inspection That now he knew the extent of our problem He would ring up base and tell them to bring in the heavy equipment Not at all, he said Just it's one of the biggest I've seen Now, would you have a long bamboo stick Or maybe a broom handle A piece of sticky tape and a match Moira got the bamboo stick Six foot long from the French beans in the back garden I got the sticky tape And a pack of book matches which said El Capistrano Villages, Nerca, Malaga We'd been there on holiday once That's where we started the baby, I reckon Neither of us smoked now I tried one of the matches It sent a sliver of sulphurous smoke to the ceiling He took two inches of sticky tape Broke it off with a dirty thumbnail And parked it on top of the back of his hand Then delicately, he removed a tiny purple tablet From his waistcoat pocket We both watched in silence As he placed the tablet on the tip of the cane And fixed it in place with the sticky tape The only sound was off his wheezes Nearly there, he smiled at us He held out his hand Match? Pardon, I said Match, he said, to light it I gave him the book of matches He handed me the bamboo And eased himself up the ladder It groaned under his bulk Now when I give the word, hand me the stick And get out of the way, just in case of any accidents He broke off another one of the matches And cracked it with his thumb He applied it to the purple tablet The match went out He lit another This time the tablet caught With a hiss, it erupted smoke like a tiny volcano Now, he said, dropping the matches He grabbed the stick Pushed the trapdoor up And hauled himself into the attic The door shut behind him We looked at one another for a moment Then ran into the kitchen And slammed the door We listened, not a sound He's mad, I said, stone-hatchet mad The little buggers will sting him to death If anything does happen, said Moira How are we going to get him down? He's a big man Then we heard a loud coughing and spluttering We poked our heads out of the kitchen The exterminator was crawling down the ladder Eyes streaming Oh, Jesus, he said And he slumped beside the wall, ashen-faced We stood looking at him Can we get you something? asked Moira Are you all right? from me He waved his hand Eventually the words came out in wheezy gasps No problem, no problem, Squire Could I have a glass of water? Be okie-dokie in a minute He sipped the water, then rose to his feet Sorry about that Hope it didn't startle you Getting a bit old for this job, I think Now, what was that quotation? Twenty pounds, I think He made a receipt out It was rubber-stamped with the name of the firm And signed with a scrawl The, you know, up above I pointed to the trapdoor Give it a couple of hours Then you can clean out the nest A big one You can burn it, or put it in the bin You won't have any more trouble with them lads this year Sometimes they come back the following year But that's next year, and that's another year's work Ok? He left The attic was silent After two hours, I went cautiously up through the trapdoor The flashlamp revealed all I called Moira She wouldn't come up Wasps lay in their thousands, dead There was a sweetish smell in the air Like the stuff you put in drawers to keep clothes fresh But over in the corner hung the nest Unbelievable Big as a rugby ball I broke it off at the stem and carried it down We looked at it in awe It was truly an amazing construction Made of something that looked like paper But not like any paper we've ever seen Thousands of tiny hexagonal combs All identical in size and structure And fitted together meticulously We carried it out to the back garden It was quite solid I broke it open with a spade There inside were hundreds of tiny pale bodies Grubs and partly formed wasps Dead Quickly I poured petrol over it and set it alight It burned for a long time I couldn't take my eyes off it Then I heard it The weeping Moira was behind me Sobbing I put my arms around her I knew she was thinking of Jennifer I had already wept Lots Moira hadn't We walked back into the house Like a pair of mutually supporting convalescents Later over tea I think it's high time we got that attic finished Do you remember those two guys? What were their names? I'm sure I wrote them down Wonder are they still in business? Wonder does your man still play the tin whistle? I was rabbiting on The wasps were dead The way ahead seemed clear now And possible Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh