The Clare Trilogy

We crept away, not telling a soul. We left at dawn, phoned my son, told him to meet us there. Doonbeg, Clare.

Late Afternoon Yoga on the White Strand with my Daughter

Under the cliff, near the lapping shore, 
my daughter, turned downward dog into cat cow 
Her taut, lithe body framed itself into warrior three
contorted back into crab and stretched into tree.
Her hands reached into the kippered clouds 
rippling in pink across the late afternoon sea. 

Meantime, above, a  flow of black and white cattle, 
with shuddering udders, meandered, full of shape 
and sway, from the field at the top of the beach 
to a milking shed, flicking tails, leaking shit.
The waft and vision sent our dogs into a paroxysm 
of heaven, terror and joy, barking and yapping.

At the sound of the mayhem, we leapt with alacrity 
to leash our mutts, chasing and shouting ‘stop that’, 
‘come here’. Order restored, we apologised, admonished our pets
who flopped down, tongues lolling, unrepentant; 
We resumed our positions, Roisin in child’s pose, me 
smoking a cigarette, but the zen moment  was ruined.

The Pollock Hole in Kilkee

It was early morning
A man’s bare pale skin puckered,
red with goosebumps.
He chatted to his young son 
in no rush to leave or clothe himself.
Behind, in the sunlight, 
the pollock glistened in the flat granite rock
both alluring and frightful at the same time
It’s balmy, he joked.
My daughter undressed and crouched, preparing.
The man and boy left.
I stepped away, traversing the plateau of black and grey
dotted with light. I sniffed the bright blue and yellow
cold wind snipped at my ankles
the town quiet at the prom.
I circled back to the pollock.
She was still on the rock
I waited. She plunged. I saw her legs kick
Her mouth gasp, her arms flail.
It’s so cold, she wailed, but wonderful
I wanted to go in
But my heart failed.

O’Brien’s Cottage, Doonbeg

The kitchen table dominated the room
Long, bleached, four two inch wooden panels of pine
detracting even from the ancient range

we set it with two vases of flowers 
Salad, sausages, fried potatoes 
Cheese and wine

mother, father
brother, sister
a family on the cusp of turning

Through the thick cottage walls 
and small windows, fingers of sun reached in 
Spreading sea, salt, and scrubby grass

My tummy gurgled in glee
at the pitch of conversation
forming familiar patterns

around a kitchen table
after so long in silence 
staring alone at the TV


Happy International Women’s Day 21

Yesterday, I listened to Holly Cairn TD’s IWD speech and wrote a little ditty in response.Below is the poem and a link to Holly’s instagram. Holly’s is definitely worth hearing.

A Male Point of View

Holly Cairns, TD for Cork, stood

among the vacant seats

in the centre of an deserted row

and spoke into the middle distance

about her appreciation of free toilet paper

in public loos.

That was nice, she thought, as she washed her hands

and wished the same was true of tampons

so that women could avoid bloody pants

the stigma, shame and spreading stains

that goes with stuffing wads of paper

in their crotch to absorb the period they can’t afford.

Holly then talked of the colossal rise

of calls to Women’s Aid in the pandemic.

I had heard the same in Longford, Dublin, and Limerick.

Good woman, I thought.

Following this, Holly went on to present

her practical list of inequality that women still face

to a floor full of green unoccupied chairs.

Apparently she was there alone, but, at the end

of her excellent speech, a fat jowly man,

a male speaker

said he hoped his successor

would be a woman

but until then he would keep safe this powerful position.


The Glory of Colour

Cavan is a gorgeous county, the constant change of light is fabulous, the fiery pinks, the opaque greens, the cut glass blues. The autumnal woods and forests weave magnificent spells of red, orange, yellow in jewelled mists, and the lakes loom mysterious or rain down from clouds,  watching, like glinting eyes.    

Yes, I live in a handy place (close to town and to country) so my walks around can lead me past shop keepers standing in their doorways, trying to sell stock from behind a desk, town parks with huddled ominous looking teenagers in the distance, smoking and drinking cans or I can amble out into the above mentioned wilderness.  indeed, this year Cavan has been the centre, not only of my Ireland but my universe; Sadly, the problem was it was only peopled by me and however hard I try, I cannot provide myself with everything I need. I am not witty enough to come up with the sparkling repartee and banter I enjoy, and even if I do cast the odd comment, the radio doesn’t respond.

During these days, there was always something to do: read, write a poem, walk the dog, paint a picture, play piano, bake a cake, prepare the dinner, watch TV, do a puzzle, zoom, do Duo Lingo (I’m in the top 1% in French) though I quickly gave up on the crosswords. But, however much I did or do, in lockdown, I feel like I’m doing it while moving through treacle.

I came to realise how much time I spend of my life planning – planning outings, arranging journeys, scheming appointments – and how much time I spend enjoying looking forward to such events. It seems my sense of self is formed by these excursions. I am someone. I am going somewhere. I have an objective, a meaning. When I am not able to do them, my sense of self esteem collapses, and I am not woman enough to pick up the pieces. Treacle takes over. And I wade. When one wades one loses clarity, the sharper definition of one’s life disappears. When I become a ‘one’, I lose individuality. I feel as if I have moved into Beckett territory and I don’t like it there. I think Beckett is best kept on the page.

So, as we headed towards the end of lockdown at the end of November, I started scheming. I was heading to Dublin. I was going to see my daughter’s new home, I was going to spend a weekend in Limerick with my son. But I was nervous. Driving, I was alert, planning my reasons, rationalising my justifications in case I was stopped by the Garda. There were masks in the glove compartment, in my bag, in the doors, behind the sun visor. Having arrived, I breathed a sigh of relief. When I first saw my daughter, I burst into tears. I held her tight, surprised by the sobs racking my body, and then I realised she was sobbing too. Our stomachs were heaving into each other as I clung to her. It was then I became aware that however much I was isolated, I wasn’t alone. While hugging and sobbing, I could feel the colour seeping back into my veins, and I couldn’t let her go until I was full of her purples, blues, whites and pinks.


Corona S Bends, Sliding Down Snakes and being Turtle-like.

This is my first blog for a while. I think it is the first time I have missed writing a monthly blog since I started writing them in 2013. The Corona Virus has attacked my central nervous system. It feels as if my veins have got twisted, and acid is leaking lethargic-like from my battery, but I am aware that I am lucky to have escaped so lightly.

During the lock down I tried to keep focus – keep the hours in order, the day ship shape but, presumably like everyone else, the long road seemed to be full of mountainous S bends and dazzling drops. Over the months, I think I must have taken a wrong turn, slipped under a barrier without knowing, and slid down a snake! But the good news is I appear to be back at GO, for I have just had a few lovely weekends, so I have something to blog about. I am sorry for the terrible mixed metaphors… Obviously, I’m not at my peak of literary writing!

The Corona Virus did make me realise how flimsy and translucent are the protective coverings that I had created for myself over my sixty years of living, forty years of work and thirty years of parenting. It showed me how quickly everything can dissemble. Over the years, I  thought I’d been garnering experience, maturity, wisdom even, but it turns out I was only preening and the real fact of the matter is that on some days I felt as raw as I did when a teenager or else, more worrying, I felt nothing. What also surprised me is that, aside from a sense of agitation, which I think everyone felt being locked in, I was unable to prevent my slide into this weary state of being.

Feeling nothing is alarming. During Corona,  I filled my days, as I think I said in my last blog with books, puzzles, piano learning, some online workshops, volunteering, walking, learning French, cooking; I even wrote the odd poem but, somehow despite this enforced activity,  my heart slipped away. I felt like an old turtle on her back, still plodding but now unable to move, stuck.

With the relaxing of the lockdown, it has got easier. Today, I was going to blog about the wonderful weekend in Limerick with Joe where we spent our time making a garden of his tiny outdoor space and last Saturday and Sunday when Roisin, Joe and I went the beach in Brittas Bay, walked, swam and camped in Roisin’s new old VW camper. I was going to blog about hope and new beginnings. But the thing is, I’m more aware of those damned snakes and I feel too old to enjoy the thrill of the S bends even with spectacular views. I did have a lovely time in Limerick and Brittas Bay, but back in Cavan, I still feel at a slight loss as to what to do. Had to go and buy another puzzle today. My progress across the snakes and ladders board is slow. But, look, I’m writing this blog, and throwing the dice…so… let’s remember, along with the snakes are rabbits and tortoises and all that….

I’ve christened the Camper Matilda, by the way.

Joe’s garden

snuggling down for the evening after windy beach walks and rainbows



On Balance…

The pleasures of books, chocolate, pies, piano playing and puzzles are the fancy curlicues of my life since Covid 19 sauntered in, alongside the grim gargoyles of death, disease, social distancing, not to mention the endemic usage of phrases like ‘strange times’ and ‘stay safe’. Life is so strangely balanced between light and dark, don’t you think?

Colum McCann’s latest book, Apeirogon, A Novel, is a story of balance. It must have been a labour of love to write. It is observant, astute, intelligent, detailed yet freewheeling, tight but unwieldy at the same time. As I say, a labour of love, certainly to read, but I am glad I did. I am currently reading Isobel Allende’s A Long Petal of Sea about the horrors of the Spanish Civil War and the life of a Spanish émigré, a medic, who travelled on the Winnipeg, organised by Chilean poet, Neruda, to carry the Spanish refugees to Chile. Again, the book depicts the horrors of disease and death caused and encountered by human kind. I must say, as I get older, death and illness seem have a more tenacious hold on my life

During our own war on Covid 19, I have found the clamour of Facebook too much to bear, so have had to keep away from social media. I also lack the impetus to write, but I force myself to pen the odd charming poem about walking in the woods, Spring time and loneliness. However, in the main, I have retreated, cocooned myself, you could say, in the back rooms of the bungalow to re-piece together our globe by doing a puzzle of the world as depicted by all the continents and their habitats. I also practice my piano scales. Somehow, playing piano scales, the scale of C in particular, gives me a stronger sense of control over days which pass in mindless contemplation. I imagine myself as the piano player in Sarajove, except I’m in Cavan and, sadly for my neighbours,  the scale of C is not as melodic as the Adagio in G Minor.

Funnily, enough music chimes strong in another book I have read during this time, Bel Canto by Ann Patchett. It too is strangely redolent of our current experience of isolation and confusion. It tells of a large group of industrialists and foreign dignitaries listening to a recital by a world renowned opera singer. They are kidnapped and kept prisoner in the vice presidential palace over a period of two months. It is beautifully written and shows how people adapt to their circumstances, and if given time, silence, and a different environment, people will carve their own particular significance and being into the dynamic.

Family quizzes feature on a weekly basis. I organise zoom poetry sessions between old friends and so while I might not be writing much, poetry does feature. I listen to The Verb, a wonderful arts programme on Radio Three and am currently reading a book where Helen Mort writes poems in response to philosophical papers, again a rather odd coincidence given the philosophical bent of physical isolation. It is a rather fine volume called Poems, Philosophy and Coffee. Family and old friends feature more in my daily life –if at a distance – that is people who have experienced the times I consider to be my real, actual life and not just the days that have passed with me in them, as the current days do.

So, I almost didn’t write this month’s blog:  the week in Portugal didn’t happen, nor the Cork Poetry Festival, nor the Trim Weekend. There have been no visits to Dublin, Limerick or anywhere. There was no Easter Egg hunt. However, as it turns out, and it always does when I put pen to paper, that I have been engaged, absorbed, and as Ann Patchett illustrates in Bel Canto, I have carved out a new life…and I haven’t even got to the pastry making or the delicious liver and bacon casseroles I’ve been making nor the endless games of solo boggle!

Stay safe!

World Puzzle
liver and bacon casserole
heart of pine cones found in the forest

An Existential Conundrum

It has been 21 days since Leo Vradkar first appeared on TV and announced school closures and other cautionary measures around tackling the Corona Virus. I had been watching Boris earlier, so when Leo came on, I was very proud and relieved to be an Irish citizen. He brought tears to my eyes. The only other person who has been able to do that was Stephen Spielberg with ET back in the 1980s when I found myself weeping uncontrollably in the cinema, while laughing manically at this manipulation of my tear ducts. It was a similar experience on my living room sofa on the 27 March. Fortunately, because I already lived in social isolation, no one saw.

Social isolation has its benefits…as maybe people are beginning to recognise. There are more people exercising, smiling and waving while also keeping their distance. There is a great feeling of camaraderie. The community is sharing food, making deliveries to those who need it. No longer is it shameful to feel lonely, for everyone is feeling lonely or frightened. There are new forms of engagement. I am doing quizzes on-line with family. I am in contact with friends who before I would speak to only occasionally. Social distancing in supermarkets means a much more enjoyable shopping experience where one has time and space to ponder and choose.

My days haven’t changed dramatically due to Covid 19 because as a writer/poet, and retired person living in Cavan, they don’t really involve other people. I wake up, write or edit what I’m working on, get up, take the dog for a walk, listen to podcasts, have lunch while listening to the radio, read a book, listen to more radio, clean, shop, cook, watch TV and back to bed. After a few weeks of this routine, I do get what I term ‘Cavan Fever’. However, I am usually able to offset that with a visit to Limerick or Dublin, or a book launch or some poetry festival somewhere. Obviously, the Corona Virus has stopped that travel. So, after twenty one days of ever increasing restrictions and walking around in ever decreasing circles, it feels as if my eyes are beginning to dart side to side, my hair is standing up on end, and my skin is feeling prickly.  These are the physical symptoms I feel.

But, I wonder at this physical reaction because the quality of my day to day life is good. Since Leo made his first announcement, I have given myself ‘permissions’ which for some reason I didn’t before. I decided to learn piano, to improve my mind by studying The Guardian Crosswork (Simple and Cryptic), to do puzzles, to paint, to allow myself cake and chocolate. I feel guilty saying it while all around me the world collapses, but my life is good. The restrictions on movement make me feel twitchy, but when hundreds of thousands of people are dying across the world, twitchy is grand.  Okay, when I watch the news, I feel sick. The emergency hospitals going up in Central Park in New York, in London exhibition centres, in grand Piazzas in Italy and Spain are horrifying to see, but by the same token, it is wonderful to see people come together,  work and respond as one – as a society. Why does it take such calamity for us to improve our lives, both as a society and as individuals?

There is so much discussion about Covid 19 – is it earth’s natural solution to the tyranny of mankind. I don’t want to add to that, but for me there is an uncomfortable question inherent in the unfolding Corona virus scenario that we need to consider. In the future, how do we make our society reflect the values around human rights that Covid 19 has shown us all to hold?

I am lucky. I don’t know anyone who is ill. The Irish lock down has presumably stemmed the spread of infection and the subsequent number of deaths. What I’d like to know is how we hold on to the benefits that the virus has shown us are possible without requiring the threat of death? Hopefully, the future Irish Government will reflect on this!


Home from Home

It seems that I haven’t stopped crying recently. I spent the weekend in London, and then the last few days in County Kerry and throughout this time I have required a constant stream of tissues which, unfortunately, I never had! The tears have been big, round rolling ones which spill involuntarily out of the eye. I usually tried to wipe them away before anyone saw. When I didn’t succeed, these tears led to big, embarrassed, foolish grins plastered on my face over which I had no control.

It all began when I returned to London to see The Boyfriend at the Chocolate Factory Theatre in Southwark. I flew into Gatwick and travelled into town. My brother, and his partner, my oldest childhood friends, various university friends, some with family, and my own daughter had already arrived at our pre show dinner,  so when I sat down, I felt a little emotional at having my nearest and dearest so close at hand. I managed to keep my composure but of course the show itself triggered the lachrymose gland that would continue to leak for the next five days!

The Boyfriend provoked a variety of emotions – joyous nostalgia, horror at the unremitting sexism, and amusement at how successfully the production undermined its own sentiments through exageration. It was almost grotesque. The costumes were rich in jewels, glitter and shimmer. The ‘girls’ were pitch perfect in giggle and chatter, and Mme Dubonnet was a treat to behold. Her outfits were perfect and her acting was superb. The dancing was fabulous. I do recommend it, particularly for people of my generation though I have to say, at 60, we were the youngest in the audience.

When I was at Primary School, my class put on The Boyfriend. We were nine years old. Watching the performance, I quivered with retrospective embarrassment at how our porky, pre-pubescent bodies must have looked, kicking and twirling in our flapper costumes. Aged ten, I had little concept of irony so I think all those songs yearning for Pierrots and love, and boyfriends in Bloomsbury, probably have a lot to answer for!

The next day, Maria, Malcolm and I set off to Colchester to visit Martin and Kobi, who had turned down the invitation to The Boyfriend. Martin is one of my first loves and has recently returned from New Zealand (where he is now a citizen) and he and his Kiwi partner, Kobi, are buying a place in Colchester…don’t ask. Anyway, after driving around endless Colchester roundabouts and suburban posh streets in Storm Enrique, looking at the hundreds of houses they didn’t buy, we drove out to Mersea Island to a popular sea shack to  eat gorgeous seafood. To get to Mersea Island, we had to cross a toll bridge over miles of brown, roiling, schlucking, glorious mud. Admittedly, there was actual water at the coastline with colourful, pretty boats jangling in the marina, but it was definitely offset by the grey sleeting curtain of wind and rain.  The shack, however, was a shanty of delight: live, crawling lobsters in tanks, mussels, crabs, shrimps, tuna, herrings, salmon. We feasted well! Me, a little too well and while I managed to contain my tears, my stomach rued the over-indulgence as Malcolm, Maria and I drove on to stay their country pad in Suffolk.

I awoke on Saturday to storm Jorge (I don’t know what happened to the storms beginning with F, G and H) and at the crack of dawn, we left Suffolk (I was fully recovered) and returned to Sunny London where I was meeting another old friend, Lesley. At about six o’clock, after visiting a rather fine textile and costume exhibition at 2 Temple Place, a very bizarre mushroom exhibition in Somerset House, and rather fine David Bomberg and Nicholas Maes paintings at the National Gallery, we were crossing Shaftesbury Avenue on our way to an Indian Restaurant on Carnaby Street.

“Look, Mary Poppins is on at the theatre!” I said, suddenly very excited. Some of you may know that Mary Poppins is my heroine and role model. ‘Practically perfect in every way’ is my daily mantra. “Let’s just see,” I said, disappearing into the foyer. In a click of the fingers I had bought two top priced tickets for just half their value – Seat 13, Row D, in the stalls – and in one hour, we were gazing up with expectant faces and gappy grins.

It was a magnificent and spectacular performance. I have never seen a show like it. The sets were wonderfully detailed and very sophisticated. Seventeen Cherry Tree Lane was like a huge dolls house. Bert and the Chimney Sweeps tapped and swept across the roof tops, even up the sides and over the ceiling of the theatre, and Mary Poppins flew with her parrot umbrella across the auditorium. It was true magic. She sailed up the bannisters, pulled standard lamps from her glorious carpet bag, and with a click of her fingers righted the wrecked kitchen destroyed when Jane and Michael baked a cake. The dancing statues were magnificent, and I loved Mrs Correy’s Talking Shop. I couldn’t control the tears. They streamed down my cheeks in utter joy! The songs were fabulous and performances superb. Zizi Strallen was a wonderful Mary Poppins and Petula Clark was the bird lady. It was indeed, to my view, practically perfect.

The British Library, which is where I met Jayne on a lovely, sunny Sunday, was a less exuberant joy but still a pleasure. I loved the maps from the 16th century, the manuscripts you can browse through, written by the Brontes and other beloved English writers. From there, Jayne and I ambled our way through Bloomsbury, calling in at the lovely Persephone bookshop, past our old Alma Mater, Kingsway- Princeton FE college, through the ancient grave yard where my first real boyfriend used to meet me for kisses and joints, to the new Boulevard Theatre in Soho to go to a poetry reading. The poets were a mixed bunch, but the event is a weekly one run by a crew called Live Cannon which I will check out. I enjoyed it. It is a venue to look out for.

Then back to Maria and Malcolm’s and a Sunday dinner (no longer a tradition in our house at home) where I enjoyed heated discussions with Mary, their fervent and committedly vegan seventeen year old, about her school’s appalling policy on toilets for trans people and its undemocratic attitudes. I had forgotten how teenagers keep you on your toes.

Over the weekend, there had been much discussion about the Covid 19 virus in London. Mary’s school discovered one of the pupils was a possible threat and kept him in the stock cupboard until he could be collected, so I was relieved to be back on home territory in Ireland on Monday and driving down to Kerry to take part in my beautiful Citizenship Ceremony at 9.30am on Tuesday morning. Arriving in from London, it was as if I had spent the weekend saying my goodbyes to my British heritage.

Would you believe, I welled up during the Minister of State’s speech at 10am in the morning! Due to my previous work, I have heard many Minister of States speak; but I have never found myself so poignantly moved. After taking my oath of fidelity to the state, I openly wept when judge Mcmahon pronounced that I was now Irish. Tears coursed down my cheeks. I couldn’t fling my arms around my closest Irish compatriot because of the Corona virus, but I nodded with shining eyes and we decided to elbow nudge instead. I have lived here for twenty-five years, and have many friends and acquaintances. I have worked for State agencies and across the country in a community development capacity. I have been very active in my own local community in Cavan, but I have always felt as if I didn’t truly belong because I wasn’t Irish. Now I am!

So, my weekend was a bit of a roller coaster of emotions. Being in London, spending time with my oldest friends in the place I was reared, visiting the landmarks of my youth, going to exhibitions and theatres reminds me of the girl I once was, and makes me feel safe. However, coming home to Ireland, receiving acknowledgement and acceptance of my life here as a mother, worker and woman and becoming a citizen of the land of saints and scholars was tremendous. You won’t believe this, but after the ceremony we took a drive through the Dunloe Gap of the stunning scenery of Macgillycuddy Reeks through blue skies, glorious sunshine and amazing black, formidable clouds. At the pass, I got out danced at the end of triple edged, watery rainbow!

Macgillycuddy Reeks
macgillycuddy Reeks again
Martin, Kobi and Maria on Mersea Island
Certificate of Citizenship

Taking a New Path – Out of Doolin

I was at the Doolin Writers festival last weekend. Its my fourth year going to Doolin and the faces are becoming more familiar. I might even remember people’s names when I turn up next year. It’s strange how friendships evolve. I meet someone once a year in a workshop, share a few readings, become firm friends over a few drinks and then don’t see them again for a year or even two, and some people I don’t ever talk to, yet every year I feel a part of something at Doolin! I feel like a fish swimming in a shoal or a starling flying in a murmuration.

Usually, going to festivals, at first, I feel cautious, nervous like a rough sketch of a charcoal character, or a figure in one of Lowry’s paintings. Probably, it is what most people feel, but if the workshop facilitator is good, s/he is able to turn us all into fine art (not saying that Lowry is not fine art). This year the workshop facilitators were excellent and I was turned into a Yeats figure (particularly after a few in Fitz’s bar).

I loved Jessica Traynor’s Poetry Workshop. She is a very adept painter, to continue the metaphor. Her brush strokes were deft, detailed and loving. We discussed and wrote poems about winter – the cold, bleak rawness of winter.  I had brought a poem of mine called the Grand Scheme of Things (after Arthur Rimbaud) to workshop. It is a poem about a slow realisation of how little our lives are in the grand scheme of things. It turned out to be the start of an interesting journey.

Pauline Clooney’s workshop on Memoir was fascinating and pointed me in a direction I wasn’t really expecting to take. When I was writing about the previous day, (as per one of Pauline’s exercises) I realised that I had not prepared for this writing weekend, it had merely been a date in my diary. In the morning, I had just got up, got the dog to the kennels, got in the car and driven . I couldn’t even remember which workshops I had signed up for. Describing my day, I suddenly realised that I had lost faith.  It was also in the memoir workshop that I met my dad. From his bag he gave me a French baguette, a camembert and a bottle of wine so we sat down and shared it. It was an unexpected pleasure and made me realise how much I have missed him in the last thirty years. Kathy D’Arcy pushed me further down this self-reflective path on our Ginko walk on Sunday.

However, before that I went to Christodoulos Makris’ poetry workshop on experimental sampling which was brilliant. He was measured, gentle, quiet, a most unusual kind of rule breaker. I was still unaware at this stage but his workshop about breaking rules and patterns was to encourage me and gave me confidence to strike out on a slightly path. That path came with our Sunday morning walk with Kathy D’Arcy as a guide.

I had thought I was going for a wind swept guided walk over the cliffs of Moher – presumably Kathy would stop me taking selfies too near the edge. I was wrong – about Kathy and the Cliffs of Moher. The cliff path was closed due to the weather (it was wet and freezing) and Kathy pushed me over an edge I was not expecting.

Apparently, this was a walk involving exploration of self (remember, I had not prepared for this weekend). There were three parts to the walk and each section was to be walked in silence. The first section we had to think about our past. The second section we considered out present and in the final section we thought about the future, the goals we had, the challenges we were going to face. After each section we sat on a rock or a bench in the freezing chill winds and did some free writing – writing anything, without stopping.

I should mention at this point my feelings about the Doolin landscape. I think it is a startling one, but I find it unsettles me and this morning, it was particularly bleak, and cold. The harsh, sweeping winds, the vast grey sky was reflected in both the ocean and rocks of lime strewn around the land. The small white buildings scattered across stumpy fields, to me, look lost and forlorn.  There are no distractions, little loveliness.

On my walk in the past I recalled being nervous as a child, unsure, always watching, and then forcing myself to plunge into life. Then, it occurred to me, life took over and somehow, I disappeared. Walking along, single file, in silence with the wind pumping at my eyes, I wondered what happened to that child. I couldn’t remember much about her. The only image I could recall from my past was giving birth to my children (and I think that was provoked by the white sea spray smashing against the black rocks). Thinking about my present, I felt the cold stone beneath the soles of my feet, and the freezing wind scorch my cheeks.  I watched a sea gull balancing on the soaring wind, squawking. The manicured green flow and bump of the pitch and putt course reminded me of curvaceous shape of a woman lying down, oiled and massaged. I couldn’t think of anything else. Not only do I not recall my past, I don’t know what my present is, I thought to myself.

Thinking of the future, and my goals, my first thought was to wonder if I had one. Maybe I should focus more on me, I thought. I don’t seem to know very much. I can’t remember anything about my childhood. My present is just full of stones, wind, gulls and pitch and putt courses. Maybe, I need to discover more about myself.

I have enough self awareness to know that my way of dealing with challenges is to move on. I have always shied away from self-reflection, been sceptical about meditation, felt there were more important things to do, like tackling poverty, inequality, politics. I could try, I thought. Nah, I thought. Yes, I thought, I’m just scared. It would be good to know if there is more to you. Nah, I thought, its too self-indulgent. Anyway, I don’t know how to. I remembered Kathy said to think about the challenges. Possibly, I am my greatest challenge.

The last section of the walk we were able to talk and I asked Kathy how to even begin to try being more self aware. Write, she said. Try the Artist’s Way. Yeah, yeah, I said, instantly dismissive. Everyone says that, she said. I ordered it when I got home.

So, I will try this path of self reflection. I still feel sceptical, but, when I thought about the weekend, it was strange – everything pointed me in this direction. My lack of preparation, my realisation that I had lost faith (in everything), my choice of poem to workshop, my meeting my father at the memoir workshop, taking a workshop in experimentation and doing a Ginko walk – without checking what it was.

Susan Tomaselli, June Caldwell, and Donal Minihan were the key organisers of the festival. While, I will hold them responsible for whatever happens, I also want to thank them for a fantastic writing weekend.

Doolin Writers Festival Programme

My Stats of 2019

Review of 2019

This year has been full of revolving doors, escalators, immigration queues and giant flying machines on aprons. I have visited different countries, cities, cathedrals, cafes, museums, mausoleums, islands, people, parks, paintings, riches, royalty and seen much poverty scattered liberally around streets.

I’ve watched, read and heard about many protests – in Paris, Hong Kong, Beirut, Gambia, New Zealand, Australia, Chile, India, Venezuela, Brazil, Sudan, London, Dublin. These are the ones that immediately come to mind. I’ve seen amazing ‘planet earth’ film and photography on TV, on-line, and in exhibitions – beautiful photos that depict our amazing world that is now under threat.

I’ve read about thirty books with characters from Lagos, Korea, London, Dublin, New York, Ohio, Idaho, Jerusalem, Belfast, the Dominican Republic, Paris, Ghana, Sligo, Norwich, Cavan, Maine, Chicago, India, Italy, Amsterdam, Yorkshire, China, Canada, Holland, Istanbul, Greece, Jordan and Mexico. Stand out books were The Lost Children by Valeria Luiscelli, Education by Tara Westover, Stay With Me by Ayobami Adebayo, Welcome to Lagos by Chibundo Onzu, An Orchestra of Minorities by Chicozie Obiama and a book of short stories, The Lemon Tree by Julian Barnes.

I have watched hundreds of hours of TV, Netflix and Prime (I loved Pride, with Dominic West,  Fleabag, The Marvellous Mrs Maisel, Games of Thrones, The Crown, Peaky Blinders, Line of Duty, The Hand Maid’s Tale).

I have walked approximately 2,000 kms and swum 100,000 metres (conservative estimates) through woods, along lakeshores, by beaches, in strange, wonderful cities.

I have written about 30 new poems, spent hours (approx. 700) happily editing poetry and short stories in bed and submitted approximately 50 poems/short stories to competitions/literary journals. I have been published in three journals, shortlisted in two competitions, not heard back from most and read at three events this year. I have been to five literary festivals. I have written about 14 blogs (you can check that at and listened to about 200 hours of book and political podcasts. I have run four literary evenings in Cavan, two writing weekends and one eight-week poetry workshop on form, which was fun, and I mentored three poets.

I also worked with the Freedom to Write campaign – highlighting four imprisoned writers: Nedim Turfent, Turkey, Chimengul Awut from China, Galal El-Hairy, Egypt and Dawitt Issak, Eritrea.

I have daubed thirty paintings and tried my hand with water colours, oils, acrylics, pastels. I have discovered my perspective is completely askew which probably explains some of my poems.

I have celebrated 60 years this year. God knows how many cakes I’ve baked and scoffed in compensation for having to watch Brexit unfold. I have experienced glimmers of hope at the Labour Party Conference and during the recent UK election when I listened to John McDonnell and Jeremy Corbyn talk of green industrial revolutions, nationalisation, co-operatives, jobs, and home building but Boris Johnson and Tory voters broke my heart on Friday 13th December .

The learning from the year? Life goes on, day by day, and I want to enjoy it in a million different ways until it stops when all the agonising, wondrous beauty will disappear forever: all the lovely photographs on Instagram, all the protests, all the books, all the natural disasters, all the rubbish in the oceans, all the miles and metres walked and swum, all the stories, all the love, the poems, the wine, cakes and then there will be no more failure nor any more Tory Party. But, until then, I am yours and looking forward to 2020.

Kate’s painting!
Mount Etna

The Day of the Imprisoned Writer – Speak Out

Today is the day of the imprisoned writer and last night a fantastic crowd of about sixty people came to Poetry Ireland in Dublin to listen to poems by four poets who have been silenced and imprisoned by their Governments: Galal El Hairy, from Egypt, Chimengul Awut from China, Nedim Türfent, Turkey and Dawit Issak from Eritrea.

There were brief introductions to each of the imprisoned poets and writers from the members of a group, Freedom to Write who organised the event and then four Irish poets read their work.  These writers were imprisoned for writing articles or tender, gentle lines about freedom by people more concerned with personal power than in the magnificence and beauty of their countries. It made me ask the question, who is the real traitor? Dawit Issak from Eritrea has been imprisoned for nearly 19 years with no trial. He has been ‘disappeared’ with no trial and no word, and there are many writers like him across the world.

Photographs of the poets were on the Poetry Ireland mantelpiece, like family photos, and there were brief, very beautiful, haunting musical interludes from from two musicians, Eamon Sweeney and Cormac Breatnach who played a kind of low whistle (a tabhar dom do lambth) and spanish guitar/banjo kind of instrument (sorry, I didn’t get its name). The music was very effective. Having heard the poems, closing my eyes and listening to the beautifully clear notes and melodies somehow moved me closer to the imprisoned poets. I imagined the confined space, the dirt, the hunger, the sorrow, the longing to be free and human.

I seem to spend much of my time, these days, being relieved or grateful. I have much to appreciate: I am not homeless, I have a basic income, I am educated. I am free to travel, think, and write. I can vote. I am healthy. There is love and friendship all around me. Yet, I still feel a sense of increasing powerlessness, and the closing in of walls. This may be due to age as well as the rise of the power of the individual reflected in our politics and social media. I find it debilitating. Feeling simply grateful and relieved that it’s not me who suffering is degrading, and I wonder if it is reflective of what happened in Germany in the 1930s. Being part of the Freedom to Write Campaign, actively un-silencing the writers Governments imprison, by reading and hearing their writing, makes me feel stronger. As writers and poets we want the power of language released and channelled into expression, love, reason, beauty and civilisation – the key elements of humanity.

Last night, I felt grateful that I was free to hear the poetry and music, and that I could come home to a warm and welcoming home, but I also felt angry and frustrated that in this world that so many people today are imprisoned, if not by governments or dictators, then by poverty, bullies, injustice and most of all, insecurity. It is good to speak out. On the day of the imprisoned writer, speak out.

The Irish poets reading the work were Celia de Fréine, Colm Keegan, Maria McManus, and Chris Murray. Thank you to the Freedom to Write Group for organising, and to Poetry Ireland and Irish Pen for the support.

Galal El-Behairy, poet, lyricist and activist (MALE)

Poet, lyricist and activist Galal El-Behairy is serving a three-year prison sentence for ‘insulting the military’ and ‘spreading false news’. He is being held in the notorious maximum-security prison Tora prison in Cairo. Nicknamed ‘Scorpion’ Prison, Tora has been condemned by scores of human rights organisations for its serious abuses, including denying inmates access to lawyers, their families, medical care and basic of hygiene products. Its infamous solitary confinement cells — which El-Behairy was subjected to — are cramped and airless. According to Galal El-Behairy’s lawyer has shown signs of severe torture, after his initial detention during which he was held incommunicado for a week.  On 31st of July 2018, Cairo’s Military Court sentenced El-Behairy to three years’ imprisonment and a fine of 10 000 Egyptian pounds (560 USD). Following El-Behairy’s conviction, the publisher of his latest book of poetry, The Finest Women on Earth, terminated their contract with him and publicly stated that its agreement to publish the work did not imply its agreement with the book’s content. Galal El-Behairy remains in prison, and is currently serving his sentence. 

Dawit Isaak has been held incommunicado in Eritrea for over 17 years (MALE)

Dawit Isaak, an award-winning Swedish-Eritrean journalist and writer, has been held incommunicado in Eritrea for over 17 years. His case is emblematic of the dire situation facing independent journalists in the country, many of whom have been subjected to systematic arbitrary arrests, threats, harassment and enforced disappearances over the years. Isaak was one of several journalists arrested during the government’s September 2001 crackdown on independent voices in the press and politics. Very little is known about his current circumstances. Although Eritrea’s Foreign Minister claimed in a 2016 interview  that all of the journalists and politicians arrested in 2001 were still alive – including Isaak – no proof has yet been provided. Similarly, there is little information available concerning the charges against these prisoners; the Foreign Minister has said that those arrested would be tried “when the government decides.” Isaak was awarded the UNESCO/Guillermo Cano World Press Freedom Prize in 2017.

News editor and reporter, Nedim Türfent  (MALE)                                                 ‘No matter what the price or consequence might be, we will never compromise from the magical creations of writing and of the written word. We would like to repeat once again our gratitude to PEN members, who have stood by us on this path.’ Nedim Türfent

15 December marked one year since news editor and reporter, Nedim Türfent, was sentenced to eight years and nine months in prison on trumped-up terrorism charges following an unfair trial, during which scores of witnesses said they had been tortured into testifying against him. Prior to his arrest, Nedim Türfent was covering Turkish military operations in southeast Turkey. He spent almost two years in solidarity confinement in harrowing detention conditions. His sentence was upheld on 19 June 2018 and his lawyers have lodged an appeal before the Constitutional Court. Determined to keep writing, Nedim Türfent started composing poetry while detained. PEN International believes that Nedim Türfent is being imprisoned solely for the peaceful exercise of his right to freedom of expression and calls for his immediate and unconditional release.

Chimengül Awut a renowned Uyghur poet    (FEMALE)                                                                 Police in Kashgar, a city in Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region, arrested Chimengul Awut, a poet and editor for the state-owned Kashgar Publishing House, in July 2018, according to Radio Free Asia. Awut was arrested as part of a more than year-long crackdown on the publishing company in which several other former and current staff were detained.

As well as Awut, police arrested Ablajan Siyit, a deputy editor-in-chief and translator, and former editors-in-chief Osman Zunun, who retired 10 years ago, and Abliz Omer, who retired 20 years ago, according to the RFA report. The report did not name the other staff arrested.

According to the report, the staff are accused of producing books that were deemed “problematic” or “dangerous.”

RFA cited a member of the local judiciary as saying in a phone interview that the arrests were part of a government investigation into books that may be politically sensitive. The judiciary member said that Kashgar Publishing House was accused of publishing more than 600 books that fell into this category. The investigation focused on authors, editors, and those who authorized the publications, according to Radio Free Asia.