POEM: The Folly

 

Co.Cork.  Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

The Folly    

Gaeltacht – Irish-speaking area.

Teanga – living language, tongue.

 

My Gaeltacht friend explained  ‘Ye should go t’ see the folly…’

So, like tourists, my man and I actually took a clear-day,

no rain so far drive. A determined scenic dalliance

in sunny  sections flashing green and historical grey.

 

Eventually – with no clear direction, journeying

quite far out of our way…  we appreciated the Anglo

interpretation on the road signs, because as foreigners,

we don’t speak the traditional language of Ireland.

 

Not wanting to barstardise or pronounce phonetically

in error, ‘so’.  We enjoyed the lilt and musicality of her

tumbled, seemingly conscientious explanation – story-

telling at a 100 miles an hour.  ‘Ah well  ye know, ta

 

get t’da place dat ‘tis, you just go along dis

road, don’t ye know, ‘tis a sort of a wind-y road, den

up t’ hill, don’t ye know and dere’ll be a turn off t’

da right – de left would it be, no, ‘tis definitely

 

da right…  but don’t you be going dat way, d’ye know

‘cos dat’ll get ye into all sorts a troubles, sure

t’ will and all…’  Pictograms pointing to a past not

forgotten although many have tried to suppress their

 

uniqueness… The soft emphasis or not.  A language

echoed through 400 years… the charming emotional

push of Ireland.  ‘So’, we go on death-defying strips

of beaten earth, slicing through fields, carelessly carving

 

up gently rising hills dotted with dwellings, puffing

grey smoke evidencing crisp cold air, we journeyed

on by-ways bordered by stones. Intrusion bands – neatly

trimmed piles of manual labour carefully selected and placed

 

one on top of the measured other… in spite of  wars and cars,

surviving like the teanga, rebelliously, resolutely, knowingly

employed at home in private, upright and proud though sagging

in some areas, often bent by forces who moved on and forgot.

 

Those walls still exist in places – repaired now, to allow

journey. Showing a path around a sparkling gem waiting…

We chanced intrusion of some one’s private personal space,

a rutted homely driveway – questions of culture, seeking

 

an un-shy, proud demonstration of Celtic heritage. We

wanted a clearer vision of soulful insistence – difference.

A sculptural acknowledgment, including the heroic past,

clear evidence of resistance – of residence.  The Folly!

 

 Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

 

@FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #POEM:TheFolly  #SketchingInIreland  #Poems   #Co.Cork  #Ireland

 

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Begorrathon: Epitaph.

Forde’s Pub, Cork, Ireland, 2003.

 

Whilst my man wooed me, I joined the original Middleton Writers group (now defunct) who welcomed me with open arms.

Also joined Munster Literature Centre and never missed a Wednesday workshop hosted by Cork/Irish literati.

The appropriately (for me) named Forde Pub, was our usual lunch break venue.

 

Epitaph for Gregory O’Donoghue

 

Seasoned, some will remember boozy lunches,

Tuna sandwiches peppered with slurred words

plated on sliced lettuce arranged ‘just so’…

Guinness frothed and creamy with subtext.

 

An Irish summer warm with purpose shared

eloquently with a visiting Australian at exclusive

Wednesday morning workshops obstinately

overseen each week, by a recalcitrant at MLC.

 

Since his silence, reverence is a poetry prize

keeping his name associated with his life love.

His canon forever in the library and his portrait,

eyeing the new wave with his silent critiques.

 

This writer will remember clever poetic reviews,

evaluating layers of old knowledge like a river

flowing effortlessly from the master to his student

and inspiration needing a break, at Forde’s Pub.

 

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2013

#FrancesMForde  #FrancesMacForde  #begorrathon2015  #MunsterLiteratureCentre  #Co.Cork  #IrishPoems  #GregO’Donoghue  #Epitaph  #Begorrathon  #IrishMonth  #MiddletonWritersGroup

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Smooth Skin

In Ireland with my newly returned love we lived in Midleton, a little village 25 km from Cork City.

He enjoyed showing me around his home of only a few years – but the new home of his heart.

Chatting about the ‘mysteries’ of writing poetry, we’d driven into Robinson’s Tyres yard, littered with used product.

I’d just finished saying I never suffered from writers block and could do a poem about anything.  He pointed and challenged me to write about ‘Those’.

So while he organised for a change of Tyre, I wrote about them:

 

Smooth Skin

 

Off Old Cork road, turning into Midleton

stacks of life-saving re-treads have Buckley’s

chance of reliving their youth. Discarded tyres

 

lay stop-piled high; like Auschwitz bodies

deflated, black, aged-old wheel-rings have

reached the end and their final journey.

 

Unlined rubber circles, low profile cushions

await disposal; melting erasure – incineration.

Their job is complete – no longer needed.

 

The largest lay prepared, neatly size-stacked,

ready and resigned, proudly age un-marked

claiming their fair share of the dumping ground.

 

Smaller circles know their place, are thrown

haphazardly because they’ve lost their grip;

swallowed by take-over tyrants, larger than they are.

 

Tractor workhorses are content to rest, miles-tired,

worn out, knowing they don’t count because the speedy

don’t care – don’t notice how many lines are missing.

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

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Wordless Wednesday: Model T

Near Clonikility, Co Cork, Ireland. Photo: Frances Macaulay Forde, 2003.

#FrancesMacaulayForde  #WordlessWednesday  #HenryFord  #ModelT  #MotorCar  #Clonikilty

#Cork

 

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Thoughts on St Paddy’s…

St Paddy’s Day in Cork, at the parade, 2003

Spending 14 glorious months in Co Cork  and having the opportunity to attend a real Irish St Patrick’s Day Parade on Patrick Street in Cork City; my Irish Hubby and I always raise a glass to our Irish roots.

It turns out (after much family history research) both our families come from Co Cork, about 10 miles from each other ~ but we actually met in the middle of Africa!

My gorgeous Hubby and I celebrating in Oz. 2008.

Inevitably, I can’t help thinking of my dear old Dad who was so proud of his heritage who cannot have  his usual Guinness today ~ we lost him 31 years ago.

My Dear Old Dad on holiday in South Africa 1966.

Unconditional

That moment

when I realized

you weren’t asleep,

I couldn’t cry. 

 

I wanted to,

thought I should,

but I couldn’t shed tears

for all those years

when I was loved

unconditionally. 

 

When I knew

no matter what I did

or said, you would always

love me – be there for me.

 

Put a plaster on my hurts,

fix me up with kisses, give

words to make me feel better. 

 

I’ll never forget your strength.

 

How your arms encircled me,

the safeness of a oak tree,

dense, caring and complete. 

I need that care now! 

 

I need to feel safe again,

to sail into your harbour of care,

find you there, waiting

 

with open arms, accepting

all my faults, all my mistakes

and letting them go. 

 

You always helped me

move on to new adventures,

strengthened by your love.

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2013

 

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Irish Midsummer

Co. Cork

Midsummer

The young hare

on country roads,

blurred speed,

dance with danger.

–

Ears flat back along,

legs pumping, stretched out

in thumping rhythm.

–

Teenagers ‘vogue’

among foxgloves,

buttercups, daisies…

–

Identify fatal perfumes

inviting the innocent,

unwary sniff-er

to twitch

inquisitive noses

roadside.

–

Sudden glare

of spotlights

freeze-framed,

seconds

star struck

– THWACK!

–

My body

flies up,

stops.

Legs loosely

flap – fold.

–

Here lies…

with body stilled,

knees crossed

like a lady…

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

Text & Photos are Copyrighted: You are welcome to share what’s written here so long as the appropriate credit (my full name) is applied. Also ( as a courtesy) it would be good to know where and when my content is shared. Thanks. Frances.

 

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Road Repairs

Lyre, Co. Cork

As I mentioned before, my gorgeous man took me to live in Midleton, Co Cork for 14 glorious months.

Every couple of days we’d get in the car and head out somewhere new.

Obsessed with trees and castles there were certainly plenty to keep me interested, meandering along byways bordered by stone walls built centuries ago, I loved tracing the steps of paternal ancestors.

Even got used to suddenly being confronted by huge tractors or hay balers taking up the whole (narrow) road.  Luckily small dents in the stone walls just big enough to fit a car are provided for just such surprises!

We’d wandered between Mallow and Ballyhooly in North Co. Cork, to visit a family grave…

Road Repairs

On a hill, Celtic crosses and angels wings
gather. We approve the view, weed and go.
Suddenly, unattended in a quiet Irish lane,

–

temporary traffic lights blink red.
Surrounded by green fields, we’re forced
to queue like country others, and reflect.

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2013

Text & Photos are Copyrighted: You are welcome to share what’s written here so long as the appropriate credit (my full name) is applied. Also ( as a courtesy) it would be good to know where and when my content is shared. Thanks. Frances.

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Munster Literarture Centre

Yeats House in Gort, Co Galway, Ireland.

For 14 glorious months I wallowed in the ‘Cradle of Storytelling’ Ireland.

Every Wednesday I attended a workshop at the Munster Literature Centre with the literati of the Cork Writing Scene which we’d break with a lunch at the local pub.

MLC Literati

A recent prompt from the Australian Poetry Centre inspired this epitaph for Gregory O’Donoghue whose brain held so much wisdom and knowledge, who generously critiqued and encouraged devoid of discrimination and I thank him.  

Forde’s Pub, Cork

Epitaph for Gregory O’Donoghue

Seasoned, some will remember boozy lunches, 

Tuna sandwiches peppered with slurred words

plated on sliced lettuce arranged ‘just so’…

Guinness frothed just right, creamy with subtext.

–

An Irish summer warm with purpose shared

eloquently with a visiting Australian at exclusive

Wednesday morning workshops, obstinately

overseen each week, by a recalcitrant at MLC.

–

Since his silence, reverence is a poetry prize

keeping his name associated with his life love.

His canon forever in the library and his portrait,

eyeing the new wave with his silent critiques.

–

This writer will remember clever poetic reviews,

evaluating layers of old knowledge like a river

flowing effortlessly from the master to his student

and inspiration needing a break, at Forde’s pub.

–

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2013

Text & Photos are Copyrighted: You are welcome to share what’s written here so long as the appropriate credit (my full name) is applied. Also ( as a courtesy) it would be good to know where and when my content is shared. Thanks. Frances.

Read Full Post »