It was cold, dark and rainy that November 2017 night as we left the Embassy. My mood did not fit the weather. The warm glow of a job well done wrapped itself around my stomach and spread out to envelop my whole being. It was all hard to believe that my scribbling had brought me here.
I had started to write to commemorate my father way back in 1976, a few poems to inscribe his memory onto paper. The first one was printed in the Midland Tribune on the anniversary of his death in 1977. I was delighted to see my words in print, a feeling that persists to this day! I returned to my university and thought no more about it until I fell in love. That led to more poems, some I laugh at now but some I’m glad I wrote and, who knows, some may even have had an impact on my future wife.
So forty years later there I was sitting in a restaurant with two of my sisters and one of my daughters, all of whom had flown over for the big event. My wife and other two daughters were abroad, unavailable. The conversation floated by me a little as my mind was back in the embassy room with the Irish Tricolour and the European blue flag forming a backdrop to my poems. The whole situation was a little surreal.
The words from that beautiful, sad, song by Tommy Sands, ‘There were Roses’, floated unbidden into my mind. ‘It’s little then we realized the tragedy in store’. Now, I admit, ‘tragedy’ may be a little strong, thankfully, to describe the events that were shortly to unfold.
Five months after my uplifting evening in the Irish Embassy I found myself in the less salubrious surroundings of a psychiatric ward here in Luxembourg city. A crash due to depression had stolen up on me and twisted my mind into such a state that I needed hospitalization. For two weeks I wondered what had happened, how could I exchange the Irish Embassy for a psychiatric bed in a matter of months? How had this happened? What exactly had happened?
After two weeks of excellent care from the medical staff, not forgetting additional care from my wife and daughters, I was discharged on St. Patrick’s Day which I took as a positive omen. I wondered if I could ever write again, where could I get the ideas, how could I structure them? Where couId I get the confidence to write another book and if I did get that far, how could I get the confidence to organize printing and selling it. It all seemed beyond me. It took some time but gradually my mind reknitted and the wheels within began to turn. Poems once again germinated.
Eventually enough poems were written to put together in a new book. I have no idea if they are of the same quality as previous poems but that is not for me to decide. My job is to write as best as I can, it is for others to decide if the output is of any substance. So I have a new offering, After the Break. It has taken five years to write and I am very happy to have gotten this far. There are sixty-two poems on various topics and it ends with a prose essay describing my breakdown.
A number of months ago I was delighted to be invited to partake in a book festival at one of the big libraries in the city. Last Thursday I had my presentation, reading some poems and prose excerpts from the new book. It was wonderful to stand there and read once again. Nerves there were but, as often happens, once I got started the poems occupied my mind and left little room for nerves.
The event was to be outside but the good Lord decided that, since it was an Irishman giving the presentation, he should provide some rain. It began to rain twenty minutes before the start time and continued long into the evening. We had to take refuge in a large tent set up just for such an eventuality. My daughter, Aoife, managed to video tape most of the readings, complete with the comforting background sound of rain on the canvas. So now I can watch them at my leisure and think ‘would you look at that bloody eejit making a show of himself’.
It all went off very well and I even sold a number of books, which is always good news. I run a little cottage writing industry. Everything is done by my good self except for actually physically printing the books. To print the books costs money so I need to sell enough books to cover that cost. This time a friend designed the cover for me so it is of a higher quality than my own previous efforts.
As I noted above the book consists primarily of poems, 62 in all. The breakdown essay covers thirty pages at the back. Browsing through the poem titles I see that, as usual, most of the poems are about Ireland and its people. Some old and dear Tullamore friends are included: Ray MacCann, Fr. Larry English and David Egan. There are poems covering many different topics. I divide the book into six sections: Friends, Social, the Aran Islands, Family, the World (parts of) and the Mind.
Six poems from the book follow. I dedicated the book to my best friend Ray MacCann, late of Cormac St., and the first poem is for him. [The book is not yet available from Offaly History but we hope to have it soon. You can register your interest per email to info@offalyhistory.com]
Best Friend Ray
He was a friend, the first
I knew him before any of the rest
If such can be measured, the best
My neighbour from next door
Raised together
Shared gardens, schools, friends, games
There should be many childhood memories
Queuing, clamouring, yet few intrude
It is a long time since we roamed the town
The pool, the school, Market Square, Spollanstown
We survived primary and the Christian Brothers
Then I was sent to boarding school down south
Every holiday we would reconnect
As though never so many weeks apart
We walked to the Harriers in search of love
Difficult to find in a teeming dance hall trove
Played rugby together and against one another
Shared news, views, on Saturday afternoons
In the Brewery Tap with our friend Kieran
Later swapped information by letter to/from the USA
News from home wrapped in wit and humour
Word pictures of local people, places, faces
When we returned he had gone
To London, across the pond
In the following thirty-five years only met twice
At our mothers funerals, enveloped by sadness
While I battled an addiction he phoned
Every three months, checking on my progress
So much it meant to hear that Offaly cadenced voice
His concern, his encouragement, his optimism
I have his smile beside me, on his memorial card
What a shock to receive a text that May 2019 day
To realise his voice will phone no more
His optimism calls across the divide to let me know
That there is indeed something better in store
That smile will always be part of me
A memory to keep close, to treasure
A light from my past to enlighten my future
Ray MacCann 24th May 2019
Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam
One Hundred Yards from Door to Door
One hundred yards from door to door
Once my world, I wanted no more
So much was encompassed along that street
I had little need to venture forth the world to meet
Our house stood at its start
Built as a British barracks the locals to dominate
Old stables out the back long since torn down
A garden stretching back to the top of the hill
That high point gave its name
To the houses all around, to the town
But we were unaware when young
As we clambered its paths up and down
Cross the road shaded by the majestic copper beech
My Grandmother’s old home, Egan’s the Hall
Its gardens well-tended, extensive playgrounds
With David and Tony childhood friends
One hundred yards along, past Paddy Lloyd’s grocery
To the tall Georgian house, home to Dad’s first family
Then populated by three Aunts, two Uncles
Beyond the regal Courthouse and ruined Imperial Jail
There was much to occupy a child on Cormac Street
The gardens, our neighbours the MacCanns
Lloyds field made for children, excitingly overgrown
And round our corner a whole other world to meet
O’Moore Street, Martins, Hughes for company
Parker’s shop with lucky bags and six sweets for a penny
Replaced by Tyrrells with Matt smiling, friendly
On down towards town, High Street, past Lawless’s
And the sweets, comics of newsagent’s Horan’s
With J.J.s sharp wit and endless puns
Yes, I was blessed with that micro world
For those short innocent years I indeed
Had little need to venture forth the world to meet
David Egan 10th May 2022
Terry Adams, solicitor, at the railway bridge and close to where he lost an arm while playing as a child in the ruins of Tullamore jail (ed.). You could park on the bridge c. 1950!
Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam
All-Ireland Glory
How lovely to see the green, white and gold
Of my faithful county, Offaly
It is such a long time since they have been
On my television screen
Gracing the hallowed Croke Park turf
Playing with determination, speed, skill
To win the prize, an Under 20 All Ireland crown
The first major title since 1998 in hurlers time
Amid my solitary celebrations I thought of Roscommon
Who played right until the end, nearly snatched it
Lucky for me they fell short but they never gave in
I ponder on all the counties around the island
Whose teams never grace that hallowed ground
Be it football or hurling they remain in sporting oblivion
Like many sports there is a near monopoly of champions
Football dominated by Kerry, by Dublin
And the big three, Cork, Tipperary and Kilkenny
Regularly triumph over all in hurling
Like many, I cheer for any who play the listed five
In the hope some other counties will breakthrough
My success rate is low but nonetheless this year
I’ll cheer for Limerick and Mayo
Those counties who never grace Croke Park
On All-Ireland final day, who never experience the high
There are nine, in my count, who have yet to win
Football or Hurling glory, what joy if one did
Imagine the scenes of celebration in any of the counties
Antrim, Carlow, Fermanagh, Leitrim, Longford
Monaghan, Westmeath, Wicklow but, alas,
Only in dreams are such scenes seen
Close the Curtains
Each evening when darkness descends
I pull the curtains, close the blinds
Hear her voice, offering advise
Through windows ten percent of heat is lost
Closing the curtains reduces that cost
Each evening my mind brings her back
A gifted person, neighbour, an inspiration
Mother to a girl friend of many years
Whose friendship I treasured
Until she left for Belgium, then France
Contact dwindling, then lost
Each evening when the darkness descends
I pull the curtains, close the blinds
Memories draw together, pleasant, sad
Recall her life, it’s positive impact
So grateful to have known such a lady
And all her wonderful family
Sylvia Courtney 11th Feb 2009
Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam
Local Politician
Contested the Westminster 1914 bye-election
His father, William, a long-time local politician
But P.F. fell seventy-nine votes short of his ambition
Still every cloud has a silver lining
Election to Westminster was soon to become
A weighted stone rather than a boon
Never took up the gun, never on the run
Devoted his time to helping the less well-off of the town
In 1918 intimidated by Sinn Féin from running again
Threats made to his family, to burn the house down
Later elected as an independent town councillor
In ’26 joined Fianna Fáil the new radical party
A councillor he remained, serving the town to his end
Today situated on the town’s edge
A pleasant road, Adams Villas, bears his name
A reminder of the man, of his positive contribution
P.F. Adams 24.08.1939
The Aisle
I walked my daughter down the aisle
Happiness shining from her eyes
So beautiful in her white gown
A proud father with her on my arm
I wore a suit for the occasion
Not used to such clothing ostentation
Proud as could be to attend
To witness her start a wedded life
The future unseen, unknown
And wonder where the years have gone
Thirty-two have slipped by since
She rushed into this existence
In such a hurry from the start
Once an inquisitive little girl
Now a blooming colourful flower
It is hard to accept the future is here, now
The past gone, swirled down time’s drain
My little girl has also gone, grown, flown
Replaced by a beautiful married woman
As for the suit it is again hanging high
Not to be disturbed to see the light of day
Unless one or other of my remaining daughters
Asks me again to be a proud father
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