Category Archives: Short Stories

IT IS OVER – The most commonly uttered phase as 2nd World War was declared over.

CELEBRATIONS IN BELFAST AND ACROSS IRELAND (BBC News 1945)
For all men and women who fought under many flags

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.-
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Dulce Et Decorum Est
Wilfred Owen

QUEEN OF THE MAY

Now the winter is gone and the summer is come
And the meadows and plantains (plantings) so gay
I heard a fair maid so sweetly she sung
And her cheeks like the blossoms in May

Young Johnny the ploughboy his cheeks like a rose
So cheery he sings to the plow
And the blackbird and thrush on every green bush
And the pretty girl a-milking her cow

As I walked through the fields to take the fresh air
And the meadows and i plantains so gay
I heard a young damsel so sweetly she sung
And her cheeks like the blossoms in May
Y

I says,”Pretty fair maid, oh how come you here
In this meadow this morning so gay?”
This maid she replied, “Sir to gather me some may
For the trees they are all now in bloom.”

I says, “My pretty fair maid shall I tarry with you
In this meadow this morning so gay?”
This maid she replied, “Are you so innocent
for fear you might lead me astray?”

I took this fair maid by the lily white hand
And on the green mossy bank set her down
And I planted a kiss on her red ruby lips
And the small birds a-singing all around

And when we arose from the green mossy bank
Through the meadow we wandered away
I had ploughed by (my) true love on the green mossy bank
And I plucked her a handful of may

And when we arose she gave me a smile
And thanked me for what I had done
For I planted a kiss on her red ruby lips
For believe me those ne’er would I shun

‘Twas early next morning I made her my bride
That the world would have nothing to say
And the bells they shall ring and the bridesmaids shall sing
And I’ll crown her the queen of the May.

From Songs the Whalemen Sang, Huntington
Collected from the journal of Bengal, 1832

CUCKOO – POEM BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! Shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of Sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!

ID DID YOU KNOW THE LENTON ROSE IS AMONGST THE FIRST FLOWER TO COME OUTEACH YEAR

A very Happy, Holy and Peaceful Easter To All my blog friends and Faithful Readers

The Loveliest Rose in the World
by Hans Christian Andersen (Adapted)

Once there reigned a queen, in whose garden were found the most glorious flowers at all seasons and from all the lands of the world. But more than all others she loved the roses, and she had many kinds of this flower, from the wild dog-rose with its apple-scented green leaves to the most splendid, large, crimson roses. They grew against the garden walls, wound themselves around the pillars and wind-frames, and crept through the windows into the rooms, and all along the ceilings in the halls. And the roses were of many colors, and of every fragrance and form.
But care and sorrow dwelt in those halls. The queen lay upon a sick-bed, and the doctors said she must die.
“There is still one thing that can save her,” said the wise man. “Bring her the loveliest rose in the world, the rose that is the symbol of the purest, the brightest love. If that is held before her eyes ere they close, she will not die.”
Then old and young came from every side with roses, the loveliest that bloomed in each garden, but they were not of the right sort. The flower was to be plucked from the Garden of Love. But what rose in all that garden expressed the highest and purest love?
And the poets sang of the loveliest rose in the world,–of the love of maid and youth, and of the love of dying heroes.
“But they have not named the right flower,” said the wise man. “They have not pointed out the place where it blooms in its splendor. It is not the rose that springs from the hearts of youthful lovers, though this rose will ever be fragrant in song. It is not the bloom that sprouts from the blood flowing from the breast of the hero who dies for his country, though few deaths are sweeter than his, and no rose is redder than the blood that flows then. Nor is it the wondrous flower to which man devotes many a sleepless night and much of his fresh life, the magic flower of science.” “But I know where it blooms,” said a happy mother, who came with her pretty child to the bedside of the dying queen. “I know where the loveliest rose of love may be found. It springs in the blooming cheeks of my sweet child, when, waking from sleep, it opens its eyes and smiles tenderly at me.” “Lovely is this rose, but there is a lovelier still,” said the wise man. “I have seen the loveliest, purest rose that blooms,” said a woman. “I saw it on the cheeks of the queen. She had taken off her golden crown. And in the long, dreary night she carried her sick child in her arms. She wept, kissed it, and prayed for her child.” “Holy and wonderful is the white rose of a mother’s grief,” answered the wise man, “but it is not the one we seek.” “The loveliest rose in the world I saw at the altar of the Lord,” said the good Bishop, “the young maidens went to the Lord’s Table. Roses were blushing and pale roses shining on their fresh cheeks. A young girl stood there. She looked with all the love and purity of her spirit up to heaven. That was the expression of the highest and purest love.” “May she be blessed,” said the wise man, “but not one of you has yet named the loveliest rose in the world.” Then there came into the room a child, the queen’s little son. “Mother,” cried the boy, “only hear what I have read.” And the child sat by the bedside and read from the Book of Him who suffered death upon the cross to save men, and even those who were not yet born. “Greater love there is not.” And a rosy glow spread over the cheeks of the queen, and her eyes gleamed, for she saw that from the leaves of the Book there bloomed the loveliest rose, that sprang from the blood of Christ shed on the cross. “I see it!” she said, “he who beholds this, the loveliest rose on earth, shall never die.”

Patti Paige: The Tennesse Waltz

Well, what else would I be doing on a wet Friday in November but singing my heart out in the upper echelons of the my local library with Aideen Davis, vocal couch and professional musician, courtesy of the Arts Council!
There are those that enquired, singing? As they gave me the Simon Cowell, Susan Boyle smirks.
Singing is amazingly liberating; especially in a group of 20 other women and 2 men.
We crooned our way through The Tennessee Waltz and more lively numbers like The Galway Girl.
What took me singing lessons? Haven’t I enough to be doing trying to meet my self – imposed deadline (Easter 2015) for my second novel?? We’ll, two reasons, the truth be told. Recently I heard Pamela Brown, writer and of Poetry Chick fame, give a stand-up spontaneous stirring rendension of performance poetry and I was utterly blown away.
The voice exercises and breath control skills needed to sing is not dissimilar to that needed to give a poetry performance, I reasoned. And the writer in me believes if you can dream it, visualise it, you can achieve it.
My second reason – is to write a song. Not just write it but sing it, yes sing it, at our next extended family get-together. And I happen to know there is just such a thing coming up in 2015.
That will shift the smirk off their faces. Of course I’ll wait until they are well inebriated – or as they say locally, well oiled, three sheets to the wind – you get the picture.
What else have I done? They say to be an accomplished writer (and I am writing diligently every day) you should read widely. So I joined a book club
This month’s book is Jodi Picoult’s The Storyteller.
I’m about a third-way through it. It’s like faction- fiction based lightly on the effect of the Holocaust on the three main characters: Sage (Jewish) Josef (SS Nazi in the past) and Sage’s grandmother who it appears suffered at the hands of the Germans.
I’m reliably told it has a twist in the tail. Maybe it’s me or the subject matter, but I can’t get into it – it might come yet.
I’ll let you know how I get on reading the other two-thirds.
And I am happy to report I was published in Women’s Weekly in October albeit in letter of the week – and they will pay – eventually.

“I DABBLED IN VERSE AND IT BECAME MY LIFE”.

(PATRICK KAVANAGH)

It National Poetry Day today (2^nd Oct)

I have always liked Patrick Kavanagh’s poetry and so I am going to post his poem ‘Innocence’ .for the day that is in it.

Poet and novelist 1904-1967 controversial and outspoken he fought valiantly to be accepted as a writer and poet and not just ‘The Boy from Monaghan’ as Dublin’s literary society thought him in the 1930s

He was a most unlikely person to become a poet. Born into a rural farming background, he left school at twelve to be apprentice shoemaker to his father. Later, he worked on the home farm in Monaghan before walking to Dublin to try and build on the poetry he’d had publish in his home newspaper.

Despite his brother’s support in Dublin he lived the life of an improvised poet. His first novel Tarry Flynn was banned for a short while. He went head to head with publishers who considered him an enigma because he told it how it was for country farmers and not the romanticised imaginings of some city writers perception of country living. His book The Ploughman and other Poems’ initially got nowhere. But despite this he kept writing.

An Irish farmer writing poetry in the 1939? I wonder what people really thought.

In the high literary circles of Dublin it took a long time for his genius to be recognised. Strangely, it was an illness that changes his literary fate.

Later, he gave lectures in Trinity College Dublin and in America.

He married Kathleen Maloney in early 1967 and sadly died on 30^th of November of the same year.

When the Irish Times compiled a list of favourite Irish poems in 2000 Ten of Patrick Kavanagh’s poems were in the top fifty – Yeats was the only other more popular poems.

POEM TITLE INNOCE

They laughed at one I loved-

The triangular hill that hung

Under the Big Forth

They said That I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges

Of the little farm and did not know the world.

But I knew that love’s doorway to life Is the same doorway everywhere.

Ashamed of what I loved I flung her from me and called her a ditch

Although she was smiling at me with violets.

But now I am back in her briary arms

The dew of an Indian Summer lies On bleached potato-stalks

What age am I?

I do not know what age I am,

I am no mortal age;

I know nothing of women, Nothing of cities, I

cannot die Unless I walk outside these whitethorn hedges

I think the words and the sentiment of the poem tells how Patrick Kavanagh hurt inside at the Dublin literary world perception of his work and his beloved Monaghan. He realised they thought he would never amount to much if he didn’t drop his love of writing about his beloved  homeplace.” They said that  I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges…”

He was being urged to change, conform – fling Monaghan from him – if he was to be accepted and successful.

Maybe he did – for a while – forgot s his roots – but he regained his self perspective again and died proud of the country background he loved.

Comments welcome on what you make of the poem

WHERE HAS THE WRITING TAKEN ME IN JULY?

That the thing about writing it takes you place and you get to meet people you probably wouldn’t be otherwise in contact with. My poem, ‘The Tears Of A Child’ was born out of a chance meeting with a woman on a bus who was going to visit her sister who has Alzheimer’s and is in a nursing home. It focused my mind on researching dementia, the effect it has on families and the startling fact it can happen at any age.
On a completely different piece of writing I wrote a short piece for my blog on Garth Brooks at loggerheads with Dublin County Council and his decision to disappoint 4000.000 fans who had bought tickets for his show in Dublin. 70.000 Of who were flying in from as far afield as Australia to hear him. Like everyone else I tuned in to all the diverse extensive TV and Radio coverage. Would he, wouldn’t he perform? It was getting more coverage than the fighting in Gaza.
And there again, an invitation from The Verbal Arts to attend two functions and read my poetry created an opportunity to network and make contacts with other writers, and established published authors.
All this alongside seeking out a publisher for my novel ‘Orphan and Strangers’ (Currently preparing to send the first three chapters to Lagan Press)
But here’s the thing I really, really loved doing – helping my eleven year old grandson to develop the plot for his first short story – ‘The Shy Killer.’
He did the plot. I did the prose. Does that make me a ghost writer?
Until the next time – keep reading – keep liking
writeyouwriteme

Oh my god it’s the beginning of a new month! Where did June 2014 go? More importantly, how did I get on with my set writing targets?

I feel the panic of a dry throat coming on as I formulate a hasty excuses in my mind justifying the things on the list which now need to be carried over and added to the July list of things to do. One word, well, two really do riverdance in my head: Routine. This is quickly followed by Procrastination.

“I don’t procrastinate. I write every single day,” I protest indignantly

Spare me the adverbs, the voice inside my heads smirks. Yes, you write every day after you have fitted it around your family and walking your Jack Russell and your darling Welsh cocker spaniel.

“Oh give it a rest,” I snap.

There are none so blind than those who will not see, sighed my head.

“Very well, I will prove to you that I do not keep putting things off. I will plan – even write down a daily work schedule for my writing. In it I will state the number of words to be written for my new book every day. And I will search high and low for a publisher for my first manuscript via the Writer’s & Artists handbook. There! Satisfied now?

I’ll hold you to that.

“I know you will,” I mutter gnoring the glorious infrequent sun splitting the trees outside the back door I switching on my laptop.

Go on then, get started. Put your money where your mouth is.

“Enough with the clichés.”

Same place same time?

“Yeah, see you then, slave driver head

Well Reader – What do you think? No contest?

Come back – see if I’m keeping to my daily writing routine. Leave me a sharp comment if you see me sliding back into my old habits. My slave driver of a head will be only delighted to be proved right. But I am determined to win this battle.

Until the next time…

Writeyouwriteme

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