Una Kelly - The Woods

These woods are lovely, dark and deep, the gnarled faced man thought. He hunted for the glass phial. His quest was hampered by having only one working eye left. All the better to seek the glass bottle that held the remedy. He stumbled through the tree tunnel. He passed the site of last year's incident.

In a blinding flash its memory came back to him. 'Seek and ye shall find,' it had said. He was drawn by birdsong to a clearing in the thicket. Raised on a stump was the object of his desire.

Gerry Hancock - Random Autobiography

I was the Pride of the Coombe, the old one whose steps now bear Zozimus’ name.

Carried aloft

‘Would you look at the head of hair on that lad!’

‘Never mind the hair, what’s the weight?’

A whopper! 5 kilos the matron said.

‘What’s that in Irish so?’

‘10 pound 10 ounces.’

‘Jesus! Poor woman!’

I was brought home to Fairbrothers’ Fields

Number four in a growing gang and

I was baptised before my mother came home.

I went on a message once with a rolled up note and took it to the Convent School

And presented it to Sister Rose who tutted and sent for Tim

My older brother by thirteen months and he took me home.

It was my best day in school, any school, any day.

Later in the Big School I learned to hurl on a concrete yard

I soon learned not to miss the ball.

Electric shocks down all my arm

Who’d have thought - electrified by concrete.

I've swum with every boy in the Tenters

First in the canal, locks are best - the rubbish too deep to snag your feet.

And then in the Public baths

Not Roman but still aristocratic

Named for Lord Iveagh - a champion of the Poor

And gur cake in St Kevin’s Dairy on the way home.

I've lost foot races, too busy looking around me, so I learned to focus quickly.

I've lost at football and hurling and learned to toughen up

No prize for last, not even for second best.

I lost a dog when I was five but he came back.

I lost him again when he was five

But I think he was too big for our house by then and we were six children now

Da said he went to a farm

I learned that grown ups tell lies too.

I grew up and became a different person

Bought a car, bought a house, bought in.

Before that I had a bike built it with my brother from scavenged bits

And bought a bell for it - my pride and joy

And I bought a record once, a single flat grooved piece of black vinyl

I thought it was the Beatles

I didn't know Peter Sellers spoke ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ too

The shop wouldn't take it back

I went twice, the woman was no better to deal with

An important lesson for many reasons.

I witnessed people passing on

First my Gran, carried out of our house the day they buried Churchill

She would have been delighted to steal his limelight.

I’d heard her sing 'Kelly the Boy from Killane' and tell tall tales

And Mam calling her Mam and telling her not to make a fool of the child

For I repeated every word in school.

I saw her lose her sight and let go of hearing.

When Decían - number eight came along she said she never misheard worse

To name a child after a deck of cards

What a name for a child and Heaven only bursting out with Saints.

My Dad and Mam passed too though years apart

Angels now I hope for that was their Faith then.

I've seen new life, new love repeat

And have been blessed to see new family join the ranks and add a verse

To an ever growing song of place and family and belonging.

I'm not sure what I want to be when I grow up.

Gerry Hancock - Wonder No More

I always wondered

Why

The world spins ‘round

And we don’t fall off

And the seas don’t spill

And cows look so still

And we don’t hear an earth wind

In our ears

And if we did

And if we fell

Would we go up

And meet the clouds

Because there is

No way down

When you are already

On the ground.

Then I hear a voice

That says

Stop wasting time

And do some work

And be best in class

And get a job

And get on well

And wonder no more...

Cathy Beck - Random Autobiography

I was the hoped-for girl after three boys were birthed – fourth time was the charm.

I discovered early that being the youngest and only girl was not a piece of cake, not eazy-peezy. Too much rough-housing with me in the middle. But, I was the apple of Daddy’s eye, the one who wouldn’t disappoint.

I held out hope for similar status in Mama’s heart.

That spot was held by her first born.

Always.

I’ve held a life-long fear of snakes – long story.

Stroked a yellow ball python curled around a man’s arm. Once.

Just once. After several gin and tonics ginned up my courage, phony as it was. The yellow beauty was surprising in its dryness and smooth as silk. Warm.

Never again.

I heard the rattle of a snake hiding under a broad hosta leaf. Too close for comfort. Hopefully  

Never again.

I’ve been scared of figments of imagination brought forward by books and film. The Monster from the Black Lagoon, fish-head dripping algae-laden water, reached for me in dreams. Frankensteins’s monster jolted to life in our small attic crawl space during a fierce electrical storm. Cobra Woman lurked at my bedside. I once screamed when I awoke to see through blurred, sleepy vision her head swaying, looking for the deadliest place to strike.

But I once saw the Cisco Kid on his horse Diablo dressed in all their TV finery – black and silver glowing in the sun – riding down Park Street to the delight of every kid in town. When he passed he smiled down at me and said, “Hello Honey.” I occupied cloud nine for weeks. The one and only time Mama pulled me out of school. Still can’t believe she did that.

I saw Robert Kennedy standing on a flat-bed trailer in a shopping center parking lot giving a campaign speech. Who knew then that I’d be crying a few weeks later when yet another Kennedy took a bullet. I watched Daddy shed tears when the first one died. And Daddy was a Republican. Some things really do transcend politics. I witnessed many times Daddy giving the last money in his pocket to someone who needed it more than he. Maybe he wasn’t a Republican after all.

I grew up in Poplar Bluff

Not as sophisticated as Paris, not as lively as London, not as friendly as Dublin, not as beautiful as Florence but it grounded me in real life. I’ve seen the hardships of poverty, I’ve heard people I thought I knew spew racial hatred, I’ve heard stories of hometown folk illustrating extreme hypocrisy.

But

I also experienced the beauty of nature, the nurturing of an old-fashioned neighborhood, life-long friendships, my first library card, my first love, peaches that ooze juice down my arm and drip off my elbow.

The best.

The best and the worst.

A full life.

CARROWNISKEY, MAYO - after "Knoxville, Tennesse" by Nikki Giovanni.

I always liked Mayo
best
you ate Granny's brown bread
still warm and moist
and potato cakes
and tarts
and egg sponge
and boiled cake
fruity
and lamb chops
and colcannon mountains
that burst open
with golden pools
of butter
inside
that oozes out
flowing like lava
down scallion-flecked slopes
to puddle
on the flowery plate
and feel full
and content
with food that delights
and nourishes.

Mary Finnegan.

Written on a writers' course with Cathy some years back and slightly tweaked in May 2016 and shared today because I found it when looking for something else!!

Nikki Giovanni - in her own words

As we have made free with one of her poems I thought we might take a look at this piece from 2008.

Nikki Giovanni is a woman who isn't afraid to speak her mind, and her 

writing is all the stronger for it. In this exclusive video interview with 

Reading Rockets, the poet and author discusses everything from Rosa 

Parks to reading with her son. She even clarifies the link between books, 

chocolate, and Harry Potter! 

Sinead Mongan - After Knoxville Tennessee

I always like coming home

best

after a stint away

in sunnier climes

and laundry

and souvenirs

and jetlag

and lots of 

unpacking

And cameras

with now surreal snapshots

of friends abroad

and sounds

captured in video clips

and half-read guidebooks

and pressed leaves

and time-zones

phonecalls

and catchups

familiar faces and places

and back to work

and freckles

and peeling skin

reminding that it wasn’t just a dream

and Skype..

Gerry Hancock ...and which to choose?

 

Mary stops where the road divides,
branching to grass-ridged paths.
She stands, the dust underfoot hot
on this august morning,
conscious of the cooling shadow
each path promises...
...and which to choose?

One leads to a stream,
cool and green
and full of secrets -
the other to a small farmhouse
hand-built by Old Darcy himself
who always feels the cold
no matter the season.
A curl of smoke from Darcy's fire
sits like a cloudlet
on the green-top of the trees
about the house...
...and which to choose?

The whispering stream calls to her,
offering restoration
easing the burning burden of the day,
the other to Darcy, 
unvisited by the world since
that rawest of January days
when Annie slipped away.
Alone, he aches and burns for human 
company again...
...and which to choose?

Authors Welcome

Hi everyone,

I sent out a mail inviting you all - I hope - to become authors.
This it appears will allow you to put up your own Posts and not just comment on others.

Please try it out with a piece of your writing so that I'm sure all is working OK. After which I hope there will be lots and lots of postings of wonderful writing from you all.

Thanks

Tenters - Dublin 8

After “Knoxville, Tennessee” by Nikki Giovanni

I always like lanes

Best

You can cut through blocks

And be surprised

And meet with ghosts

And frighten friends

And yourself

When all's said and done,

And escape from Billy’s gang

By knowing the secret ways

And get home safely

When you have wandered too far,

And hang out in Nancy’s Lane

And choke on cigarettes

Bought in ones

With a match supplied

By an enterprising shopkeeper,

And make plans

And talk of girls

And hopes for better times

And getting out of school.

Often

As an adult I turn into a lane

And I'm twelve again.

Christmas Memories - Gabrielle Gannon

Christmas Memories

They say that age can severely distort memories and in my case I would have to say that I find this to be true. Summers were always hot and sunny, winters were freezing and snow was a regular feature. A white Christmas was practically a given.

I remember particularly one Christmas Eve. Being from the heart of the countryside in Mayo (aka the back end of nowhere!) snow when it landed formed an absolute blanket. Even in the dark of night there was incredible brightness because of the snow. This particular Christmas Eve my father suggested that myself and the next up brother and sister go out with him into the snow. It didn’t take long for the first snowball to fly and within seconds it was all out war. I was only about five or six at the time and the also the annoying baby sister. This made me a prime target for the two siblings with my father (supposedly!) doing his best to help me to defend myself.

Suddenly, out of nowhere there was a loud bang....we all stopped dead. Daddy stood there with a look of complete shock on his face-“I think Santa’s sleigh has just landed on top of the hay shed-nobody move!” Take it from me nobody did. We were all petrified. After what seemed like forever Daddy said “I think it’s ok now”.

We all bet into the house like three demented popsicles. Poor Mammy who was sitting in her armchair beside the fire smoking her cigarette didn’t know what was happening. “Daddy said Santa’s been”, we all blurted out. “Don’t be daft”, she said laughing, “sure wasn’t I here the whole time”.

We ran into the ‘good room’ where the Christmas tree was and sure enough there under the tree all the presents were laid out.

Santa had been. Daddy was right, Mammy was deaf, we were thrilled and our very clever parents had just bagged themselves a lie-in on Christmas morning!

Hi PicWits

I have reformatted the piece from Eithne so that it reads as originally written. I've also posted a new contribution from Mary.
Looking forward to uploading some more.
Also looking for any other pieces - new or from previous courses. There are many new people who would love to read your work - so don't be shy!

Gerry

Mary Finnegan - FULHAM, LONDON After “Knoxville, Tennessee” by Nikki Giovanni

FULHAM, LONDON After “Knoxville, Tennessee” by Nikki Giovanni

I always liked Bishop’s Park
Best
You can walk past tennis courts
Out along by the Thames
And imagine
And swing
And daisy chain
And grass roll
And skip
And stand on low dragon-humped railings
And buy dripping
Ice-cream from the kiosk
And stop at the open air theatre
For jazz or drama
And walk with uncle
Parents sister in pram
Under tree branched cathedral
And watch rowers
Furrow water
And smell dust air
As arm brushes scrapey stone
Returning through red brick streets
And home.

Eithne Bowe - After “Knoxville, Tennessee” by Nikki Giovanni

After “Knoxville, Tennessee” by Nikki Giovanni

I always had a grá for
Dogs
You can cuddle them
Anywhere , any time
And whisper in their ear
And talk
And weep
And castigate
And experience , in return , lots of
Comfort
And softness
And unconditional love
On the farm
In the city
Morning
Noon
And night
And run through the grass and sand
Barefoot or booted
And have company
All the time
Even when you are alone
And ..... be happy

Welcome to PicWits

PicWits is both a collaborative group who first met up in Drumcondra Education in 2015 and a group of enthusiastic teachers who believe that the teaching of writing is one is one of the most crucial tasks a teacher has to tackle but that to teach writing well teachers need to work on their own writing.
This blog will feature some of the writing of this group - some of it created in minutes at the Drumcondra meetups and hopefully some of the work they have created outside of these events.