Poems for All Occasions (13 page)

With effortless ability each sod

Pitched ten to thirty feet

And landed exactly in line .

Yet, those sleán wielding artists

Were humble, unconcerned,

Sleeves pulled above bony elbows,

Hair falling over tan foreheads,

They made their craft look as simple

As throwing a rubber ball

Over brambles on the grey road

Down by Roughty Bridge, at eventide.

The screams of joyful children

Gathering “Brosna” dry and crisp

To heat the black kettle o’er flames

Which sent purple smoke into the skies,

Intermingling with bubbling vapour

From the boiling tea,which never tasted so good,

Wetting sandwiches of bacon

And large junks of currant bread

Covered with melting butter,

Sending a warmth through our bodies,

As we sat there cross legged

On a cushion of moss and heather

Drinking black tea, the beverage of Gods.

Stories were told, backs ached,

Sweat poured, yet my heart jumps

In ecstatic remembrance of our antics

In the bog above Gortalassa.

A week of soft winds and sunshine

Saw the footed peat sods

Transform into hard black turf,

Which became a decorative rick

Artistically shaped and clamped

In our back yard haggard.

Eventually to return as ashes

To the soil in Roughty Valley.

From its bog womb in Gortalassa

To the green fields and meadows,

From cradle to grave

Just like its slean artists,

Many of whom now sleep

In mossy graves by Kenmare Bay,

Their stalward limbs in ashes

And the gates to the old bog closed forever.

High over the furze and mountain heather

Curlews still swoop downwards

Digging for nourishment n the submerged marsh

THE GORTALASSA BOG, A MEMORY

(
MEITHEAL is the Gaelic word for a group of unpaid

neighbours, who helped one another to cut turf.

SLEAN is the implement used for cutting turf.

BROSNA is the Gaelic word for bits of timber

and wood collected for to light a fire.CEANABHAN is Gaelic for bog cotton.

The native game of Ireland, swift, athletic, pure,

Setanta swung the caman and killed the mighty “Cu,”

Along the Roughty Valley, its roots deep in the past,

Were teams of note and spirit, always superior class.

The Village of Kilgarvan was noted far and wide,

For breeding caman swingers, no better would you fnd.

We heard the names of former men,

who captained the Village team,

Jack “ Jubert,” was their captain ‘gainst Parnells in sweet Tralee.

Jim O’Brien of Fossa House was captain in ’33,

They reached the Semi final, but Causeway ruined their dream.

Undaunted, a decade later, ’44 the year,

Young Richie Purcell led the team, one of the finest hurling men.

Emigration took its toll, and stalwart men moved out,

Kiìgarvan strove with courage, to DEFEAT they never bowed.

The man, who never once gave in, he spurred the youth along,

Arranging games for them to play, through showers

and mist and fog.

Who could it be but my kinsman, a friend for many a year,

Denis P. of the Beara Clan, he encouraged boy and man.

Against Kenmare, they often played in Pairc Ui Bhraoin so grand,

Each player a born sportsman, like mountain hares, they sprang.

I just had reached my teenage years, ’twas way back in ’47,

When five minors from Kilgarvan’s team,

were picked to play for Kerry

They were Dan and Paudie Healy and Tim the Junior fine,

The late Jer Quill from Knockeens and the stalward

Dan Healy Shine.

In ’51, they beat Listowel and Abbeydorney too,

And later on the Crotto boys and Killarney’s mighty crew.

But the match of note in Austin Stacks, the year was ’53,

When Kilgarvan won the championship’gainst Lixnaw,

4–4 to 2 goals 3

Ah, Richie was the captain then, an experienced agile man,

So many of that team have gone, they are now in Heaven’s land,

Jer Quill, Jer Healy, Tim Junior hail, all have passed away,

That jolly soul,Con Mahony, God rest them all to day.

Ah mighty were those Village boys in glorious ’53,

In dreams I hear the sliotar’s sound and the camans from local trees.

The Gills, my cousins, Tom and Sean, Denis P. with John and Con,

Densie and his namesake, and the O’ Leary brothers strong.

And then the clan of Randles from Clontoo that vale so fair,

There was Connie Jack, and Felix Pats and Paddy Tom, I swear,

Joined by kinsman, Tomas Mickeen, a short bit up the road,

Timmy Mahony, fast and swift, like a fawn he jumped and strove.

The muinteoir, Dermot Hickey, and the Healy brothers, four,

Paudie Om, Jer, Dan and Sean were always to the fore.

Lets not forget the blondie boy, Sonny Dillon’s smiling face,

Urged along by their captain, Richie, strict, but always straight.

Those were the days of fun and joy,and that mighty Kilgarvan team,

There are many more the list is long, I’d like to mention here,

The supporters came from Roughty Vale, Kenmare,

Glenflesk, Incheese,

Hurling was their gift from God, a pastime noble, clean.

’Twas many a Sunday afternoon,

as we walked down the village street,

Each door was closed, the natives gone,

to applaud their beloved team

I often smile in pensive mood, when I think of the spirit then,

The deserted village was the home of those hearty hurling men.

They gave their best when times were hard, emigration took its toll,

Loyal to the end, God fearing men, undaunted by storm or snow.

We can’t forget their neighbouring team, Kenmare, their ally proud,

Who beat Lixnaw in ’42, midst shouts and cheers and crowds.

Jer Mac, who dwells in Main Street,captained them with pride

Gus Maybury and his brother George adorned the Kenmare side.

Johnny Thady from beloved Cross roads and Tullig’s Michael Ned,

Were Roughty’s boys, who swung the ash,

Dick Aldwell, long since dead.

Sonny Palmer, O’Sullivan Flor, the Mountains,Denis and

Tadhg, Mick Lynch, Young Gaule from Kilkenny and

McCarthy from Shannon’s side,

Pat Dan Mick O’ Sullivan, and many another lad,

Brought fame to Inbhear Sceine ,making selector Ted Clifford glad.

Many the brilliant match we watched in Fr. Breen’s Park renowned,

Between the rivals of our vale, the Village and the Town,

They played like mighty swordsmen,

you could hear the clash of ash,

Years later, Tony Murphy and his team mates,

were surely upper class.

Then very shortly after that ,the rivals would unite,

The best of them were picked to play for Kerry, side by side,

I’ve often been to Croke Park and Pairc Ui Chaoimh in Cork,

But OH, for those dashing hurlers away in the distant past.

They played the game with might and pride,

with spirit and good cheer,

The leather sliotar and caman by Roughty’s gliding stream.

To all of them, who still survive, you gave of your very best,

And to those of you all gone above, may you lie in peace and rest. .

PS; In remembrance of the good old days, and in

grateful appreciation of all those hurlers,

living and dead, who brought such joy to my

ancestors and indeed to all my own generation,

who graced the Banks of the Roughty.

Fe choimirce De agus Muire go raibh siad uilig.

Ni bheidh a leitheid ann aris.

Who comes to our homesteads,

When trouble haunts our lives?

When aged folks are dying,

Or the passing of a child.

Who pours the blessed water,

Baptising new born babes,

Offering holy Mass each morning.

Who takes the good Lord’s place?

Who lifts his hands in blessing,

With the angels all around,

Watched by our blessed Mother,

The Queen of Heaven crowned.

Who lives alone, all on his own

Away from friends and kin,

Yet always there to answer calls,

From local women and men.

Who sits each week in Confessional,

In Winter cold or Spring,

Consoling us, our troubled souls,

How many think of him?

He too is only human,

With aches like you and me,

He feels the pangs of loneliness,

But hides his pain and grief.

Yet ere we leave this world of clay,

Journeying towards Heaven’s land,

Let’s hope we see his welcome face,

And the touch of his blessed hand.

Who is this one so precious,

With a smile, he’ll always greet,

Who else but God’s own messengers,

Our own beloved priests.

Yet just because some of them stray,

Two percent or three,

Why should we blame, the rest who care,

Vengeance in word and deed.

If each one just remembered,

The Lord’s own word I’ll quote,

Let he, who is without a sin,

Aim to throw the very first stone,

Who helped our folks in former days,

By the Mass Rocks of our land,

Dying they, yet kept the faith,

Led on by a priestly hand.

And still to day in missions grey,

They toil from west to east.

Who else is there with spiritual care ,

Our Brothers, Nuns and Priests.

’Twas in the dance hall in Kilgarvan,

the action all began,

A short walk from the graveyard,

and midnight’s hour at hand.

The Ladies gathered earlier,

some sat, some stood in rows,

Awaiting for the pubs to close,

as they powdered cheeks and nose.

And then the noisy entrance of

males both old and young,

Some unsteady on their feet,

all set for a good night’s fun. .

The strains of lovely music

entranced the lads and girls,

The Incheese Kellihers and their band,

like sounds from another world.

A line of girls stood stately,

along the grey-brown wall,

Being studied with cautious glances

by the men across the hall.

Ah the waltzes and the foxtrots

and a bit of Ceili too

Sent ripples through our heart strings

and brought sweat a pouring through.

Our partners pranced and danced with glee

till the early hours of morn

’Twas ofThen two or three o’clock,

at the crowing cocks we scorned,

How great it was to trip around

with a chap who could really dance,

With one’s head upon his shoulder

and the touch of his strong sound grasp.

But woe betide, misfortune,

’twas many another bloke Who jumped

right on our corns and nearly broke our toes.

“Will you do a whirl with me,”says he,

how right he said his words,

’Twas like being up in Carrantoole,

a sheltering from wild birds.

No need for massage parlours,

in those far of bygone years.

Because we got more pawing

as we danced midst shouts and cheers.

Quite often there, some met their fate,

in the good old plain dance halls,

Astanding there aglowing

they got their marriage call.

They courted in each glade and wood,

or by the station rails,

Some ventured to the graveyard

with its big dark iron gate,

Kilgaryan had some shops so nice,

well centred, clean and neat,

Then down the village we would roam,

our clans men true to meet.

We drank a soft red mineral,

it was orange or lemonade,

Or icecream mixed with lime juice,

ah, it was a welcome treat.

Those boys had no great riches,

but they were generous to the core,

They shared their menial earnings,

and came from happy homes.

The music was soft and lulling,

we had time to chat and talk,

As we danced to the glorious rhythm,

of the foxtrot and the waltz.

Songs 1 hear in memory’s ear,

haunt me clear and loud,

1 can hear the strains of “Sweet Sixteen”

or romantic “Now is the Hour.”

“Forever and forever,

as our partners politely bowed,

1 can almost hear the music dear of

“I wonder who’se kissing him Now,”

They came from Bantry and Kenmare

from Incheese and Cork’s Coolea,

From Bonane, and Tahilla, Templenoe,

Tuosist, and from across the waves,

Mangerton, Letter. Black valley,

Crossroads and Roughty Vale,

Cleady, Killowen and Tullig,

and Cork City on Drag hunt Day.

Ah some of them dressed in grandeur,

while others couldn’t care a damn,

They wore their Sunday caipins,

and the best suits that they had,

Few owned a car , or even a bike,

but they sauntered without a care,

They bid goodbye to the old dance hall,

and left for the U,S.A,

We sang them songs like “Noreen Ban,”

and wished them on their way,

Some returned once or twice

but others we ne’er saw again.

Their names are read at Mass time still,

when the good priest asks us to pray,

For John or Pat or Jim or Joe,