I always feel discombobulated in August. August is a month for holidays, and if you are not on holiday, you don’t know what to do with yourself, even when there are things to do. This aimlessness is accentuated when one does not have to work. It feels like I am on holiday, particularly when the weather is good. The garden beckons for play, not weeding; walks and swims become lazy past times instead of regular daily exercise. It is all very irritating because I am not on holiday but others are. Somehow this changes everything. Radio programmes are different, the news does not seem to be the real, the sun is shining, and even when it’s raining people are cheerful about the Irish summer. World events, death, rape, wars, incursions, Ebola, all shimmer on the distant horizon. There are super moons, shooting stars, and a stream of never ending festivals to which I don’t go – because I am not on holiday. Everything is put on the long finger until September even though I have nothing in particular to do. I must say, it upset my equilibrium and I have felt rather disgruntled. When I was employed in an office, I used to like working in August. It was like working in slow motion. Now I’m not so keen. Being unemployed in slow motion is not as nice!

 So, I am looking forward to Sember when life begins again. It begins with a bang. There is the third AT The Edge, Cavan literary evening on Tuesday 2 September. I have three mature women poets reading: Heather Brett, Mary Melvin Geoghan and Jean Folan.  That reminds me, I have to submit a funding application to the Arts Council next month to continue this project. I should have prepared it in August but because of my discombobulation, I have been unable to do a thing. I haven’t even written any poetry. I did write a piece of flash fiction about the BBC Test Card…don’t ask.

 On Wednesday 3 September, there is a rehearsed reading of one of my one act plays at the First Wednesdays event which is run every month by Freda Donoghue and Aishling Muller at Farrelly’s in Oldcastle. The play is called The Dead Mother’s Society. It’s about four people who accidentally killed their mothers…again, don’t ask!

 I am very excited about First Wednesday. Like my other play, ‘My Rings for a Cushion’, I wrote Dead Mothers as a short story and then revamped it into a one act drama. I could do this with a good few of my short stories…my characters simply don’t shut up. It’ll be interesting to see and hear the audience reaction to it.

 I think First Wednesdays is a brilliant idea. It is a great opportunity for writers to get their material broadcast. There are usually two or three scripts read/rehearsed and Freda and Aisling are open to submissions. You can be a part of your reading, if you like. Come along to Farrelly’s pub on Wednesday 3 September at 9pm and find out more.

 Apart from the Arts Council application, I  also have to start planning the programme of my eight week poetry workshops which start in Cana House on Wednesday 17 September. And, I’m off to London on the 4^th September. Then there is mental health training later in the month hosted by the Cavan Women’s Network, and I have the AGM of Cavan Public Participation Network.

 You know what, as I write this, I’m beginning to wish I appreciated the month of August more!

For the past few years I have been developing a group of short stories drawn from my life experiences. They were written because I liked writing and wanted to write. They evolved through various mechanisms and went through different forms. They are now ten to twelve short stories and, aside from the editing, they are complete. And, now, I don’t know what to do. Of course, I have my poetry. Poems are my morning glory. They lure me from my bed. My poems are part of my every day. I pick them from the top of the fridge, hear them on the radio, play with them in the garden. But for the past year or so these stories have anchored me. So now I am feeling rather unbalanced, not as in ‘falling’ but as if I have lost my moorings. Now a million shipping metaphors are on the drift…without a compass, all at sea, fog bound. You get my point!

 I guess those stories gave shape to my writing, provided an outlet and now I am going to have to find a new funnel (help, I have to get away from these nautical nuances) for my writing.  Maybe different stories? More drama? Different horizons? (there I go again)! It’s a little scary: I feel as if am marooned on a desert island with no trees or bushes, simply oceans of sand.

 In the past, when I have thought of a desert island, it has always been laden with exotic fruits, thick fronded palm trees and weeping willows (I think the latter came from Enid Blyton’s Famous Five Stuck On an Island) from which I can weave a comfortable abode. There are fish leaping through the surf and shy, good looking, half naked nomads who occasionally share my beach and listen to my poetry. But now I’ve completed my stories, the ‘desert’ aspect becomes more dominant. My island is now barren, full of dry, windswept grains of sand and somehow, I have to make it fertile. I have to make something grow. In short, I have to start a new script for myself.

 It’s rather terrifying, and I have a feeling that this will turn out to be a bit of a ‘process’ thing. You know, where one has to experience the change and the moment before appreciating its meaning and understanding its form. I hate process. It’s so intangible and takes an age. I am too impatient for process. I always try to impose significance on process before it is ready.

 So you may be hearing more from me than is desirable. If my scripted musings become too impenetrable, ignore it…it’s just me processing and writing willy-nilly in the absence of any prosaic structure!

 Actually, maybe I’ll be able to help myself at the writing weekend which I am running on Saturday 16^th and Sunday 17^th August in Cana House. It may get me started anyhow. Actually, this week a participant of the last writing weekend shared my facebook post about the upcoming weekend, saying

 Treat yourselves – I did a weekend workshop with Kate Ennals and have to say, best money I ever spent on myself. Better than any spa day and better than the best night I ever had in a pub

 Pretty cool ay?

 Details of the weekend are:

 A two day writing workshop will be facilitated by Kate Ennals on Saturday 16^th and Sunday 17^th August in Cana House (behind St Felim’s School) Farnham St, Cavan Town from 10.00am – 3.30pm The two day workshop will include discussion on writing and poetry and set a range of different exercises: poetry, free writing, character development, dialogue. The poems/writing of each participant will be work shopped by the group.

The aim of the weekend is to stimulate different writing ideas and to work together. The workshop will be varied and hopefully challenging. There will be a limit of 10 places allocated on a first come, first served basis. Cost €45. (Light home made lunch included). The weekend is intended to be fun and constructive, providing local writers with ideas and characters that can be developed.

For further information and to register, contact Kate Ennals on 0863737847/facebook or email kateennals@live.co.uk.

Kate completed the MA in Writing at NUI Galway in 2013, receiving First Class Honours.  She has lived in Ireland (Dublin, Cavan, Galway) working with local communities and writing for the last 20 years. Kate Ennals was highly commended in the Desmond O’Grady Poetry competition in 2012, won 3^rd Prize in the Dead Good Poetry Competition, run by Over the Edge and the Galway Rape Crisis Centre in May 2013. This year, she was shortlisted in the Claremorris Theatre Fringe Festival, in the Doolin Short Story competition in 2014 and the Swiftsatire Battle of the Books competition. She has been published in the Skylight 47 (2013/2014), in Crannog (2013), Boyne Berries, ROPES, and Burning Bush 2 (2014). She also has poems and short stories published in The Galway Review.

Kate also set up and co-ordinates AT the Edge, Cavan (supported by Cavan Arts Office) a project which holds regular literary evenings in Cavan.

For the past few years I have been developing a group of short stories drawn from my life experiences. They were written because I liked writing and wanted to write. They evolved through various mechanisms and went through different forms. They are now ten to twelve short stories and, aside from the editing, they are complete. And, now, I don’t know what to do. Of course, I have my poetry. Poems are my morning glory. They lure me from my bed. My poems are part of my every day. I pick them from the top of the fridge, hear them on the radio, play with them in the garden. But for the past year or so these stories have anchored me. So now I am feeling rather unbalanced, not as in ‘falling’ but as if I have lost my moorings. Now a million shipping metaphors are on the drift…without a compass, all at sea, fog bound. You get my point!

 I guess those stories gave shape to my writing, provided an outlet and now I am going to have to find a new funnel (help, I have to get away from these nautical nuances) for my writing.  Maybe different stories? More drama? Different horizons? (there I go again)! It’s a little scary: I feel as if am marooned on a desert island with no trees or bushes, simply oceans of sand.

 In the past, when I have thought of a desert island, it has always been laden with exotic fruits, thick fronded palm trees and weeping willows (I think the latter came from Enid Blyton’s Famous Five Stuck On an Island) from which I can weave a comfortable abode. There are fish leaping through the surf and shy, good looking, half naked nomads who occasionally share my beach and listen to my poetry. But now I’ve completed my stories, the ‘desert’ aspect becomes more dominant. My island is now barren, full of dry, windswept grains of sand and somehow, I have to make it fertile. I have to make something grow. In short, I have to start a new script for myself.

 It’s rather terrifying, and I have a feeling that this will turn out to be a bit of a ‘process’ thing. You know, where one has to experience the change and the moment before appreciating its meaning and understanding its form. I hate process. It’s so intangible and takes an age. I am too impatient for process. I always try to impose significance on process before it is ready.

 So you may be hearing more from me than is desirable. If my scripted musings become too impenetrable, ignore it…it’s just me processing and writing willy-nilly in the absence of any prosaic structure!

 Actually, maybe I’ll be able to help myself at the writing weekend which I am running on Saturday 16^th and Sunday 17^th August in Cana House. It may get me started anyhow. Actually, this week a participant of the last writing weekend shared my facebook post about the upcoming weekend, saying

 Treat yourselves – I did a weekend workshop with Kate Ennals and have to say, best money I ever spent on myself. Better than any spa day and better than the best night I ever had in a pub

 Pretty cool ay?

 Details of the weekend are:

 A two day writing workshop will be facilitated by Kate Ennals on Saturday 16^th and Sunday 17^th August in Cana House (behind St Felim’s School) Farnham St, Cavan Town from 10.00am – 3.30pm The two day workshop will include discussion on writing and poetry and set a range of different exercises: poetry, free writing, character development, dialogue. The poems/writing of each participant will be work shopped by the group.

The aim of the weekend is to stimulate different writing ideas and to work together. The workshop will be varied and hopefully challenging. There will be a limit of 10 places allocated on a first come, first served basis. Cost €45. (Light home made lunch included). The weekend is intended to be fun and constructive, providing local writers with ideas and characters that can be developed.

For further information and to register, contact Kate Ennals on 0863737847/facebook or email kateennals@live.co.uk.

Kate completed the MA in Writing at NUI Galway in 2013, receiving First Class Honours.  She has lived in Ireland (Dublin, Cavan, Galway) working with local communities and writing for the last 20 years. Kate Ennals was highly commended in the Desmond O’Grady Poetry competition in 2012, won 3^rd Prize in the Dead Good Poetry Competition, run by Over the Edge and the Galway Rape Crisis Centre in May 2013. This year, she was shortlisted in the Claremorris Theatre Fringe Festival, in the Doolin Short Story competition in 2014 and the Swiftsatire Battle of the Books competition. She has been published in the Skylight 47 (2013/2014), in Crannog (2013), Boyne Berries, ROPES, and Burning Bush 2 (2014). She also has poems and short stories published in The Galway Review.

Kate also set up and co-ordinates AT the Edge, Cavan (supported by Cavan Arts Office) a project which holds regular literary evenings in Cavan.

Both my kids (young people) did well in their respective exams this summer and my maternal heart pumped pride and my brow dripped relief. I have always found it odd when strange instinctive emotions came into play. It’s as if a foreign being steps inside and takes control. The most surprising one was the anger and boiling desire a few years ago to find the young group of people who set about my son in Eyre Square and beat them to pulp. I wanted to pummel them into the ground. I had visions of them flailing around my kick flicks and karate chops. I was prepared to take them on single handed! Of course, they were never in danger (I wasn’t there and even if I had been no doubt it would have been me pummelled into the ground), but I was surprised by the, almost overwhelming, feeling of protection that I experienced.
Fortunately, it is relief and pride, with the occasional belly sinking fear, that have most often taken grip in the maternal me. But, it is the joy of reflected glory that is particularly hard to understand. For other than providing food on the occasional weekend and texting good night every so often, I did nothing. I know nothing of the law, and less about technical music production. If anything, I was probably more hindrance than help. Yet, I get this ridiculous sense of pride when they do well. I wish I could bathe as happily in my own glory. Occasionally, my friends tell me positive things about myself. They admire my strength, my joie de vie, my smile and courage. But instead of basking, I turn away and shake my head, not believing. Wouldn’t it be great to be able to bask in our own glory, rather than that of our children!
Actually, I have veered off track. I was going to write about how those important rites of passage (exams) quickly crumple into insignificance during our desperate pursuit of happiness in life. My degree in American Studies, (not a very good one, so no reflected glory for my parents there), over 30 years ago seems totally irrelevant to the poetry and writing courses that I now facilitate or the AT The Edge, Cavan literary evenings. So does the thirty five years of work in community development. But, I guess, it all adds up and contributes to the amazing me (thank you, friends, I am trying to believe) who, having done sweet FA, is happy to bask in the reflected glory of the children. So, congratulations to everyone who passed their exams…let me know if we are related, this basking business is a blast.
A sudden thought: now that I think about it, I am not sure my mother ever basked in my reflected glory. Maybe I never provided the ‘wherewithal’ for her to do so? Ahh, friends where are you? Basking time over…
In the meantime, here are some photos of the last AT The Edge, Cavan. It was a great session. The three poets reflected in their own glory and the open mic was really good. I loved seeing and hearing the varied and different talent of people, both published and unpublished. It is truly amazing what we can all do. You’d never guess.
Finally, just to let people know, I’m running a weekend writing workshop on Saturday 16th and Sunday 17th August in Cana House and will start a ten week poetry workshop in September. And, below is a link to my novella, Slainté, published on Amazon. A few of you were asking.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HT7LVNW

It took a couple of pages to absorb the sentence structure of Eimear McBride’s deeply distressing book, A Girl is a Half formed Thing. It’s written in the mode of a stream of thought of a young girl, so its punctuation reflects the havoc and incoherence of the inner voice. The story is about relationships. She has a brother with intellectual disabilities (the first pages are about his stroke as a baby); her mother is a self obsessed, religious woman. There is no father and she is raped by her uncle aged 13 with whom she forms a strong emotional bond as a result. After this she uses sex to  escape the pressures and tirades of adolescence and assert her independence. Eimear Mcbride’s book is very perceptive and it is truly a poem,

Wednesday, it rained all day, that sort of rain that makes you very wet. At the same time, we had an unexpected power cut which meant no electricity or power, so we couldn’t make tea, cook or work on computers. I had planned to hoover the house and wash the floors. Instead, the dog and I wandered aimlessly from room to room. It was like being thirteen, restless and bored. I’d forgotten what that felt like.

I also went to Jampa Ling (the Buddhist centre in Bawnboy) to see the photographs from an exhibition of ‘strong women’ that a friend is putting together. I was delighted when she asked me to feature as one of the women. The photographs, drawing (there are paintings too) of the women are striking. I was shocked when I watched the slide show: the jaws, the angles, the poses, the rhythm, the beauty, the wear and tear of the women is fascinating.

Strong women: what makes women strong? Is it luck? Family, friends? Is it circumstances? Is it ourselves? Is it biological? It’s hard to describe the whisper that weans strength or weakness of woman. Eimear McBride’s book explores female sexuality. Does sexuality provide us with strength? Or is it a weakness? Philosophical and indeed, poetic questions.

I was reading a book on poetry written in the thirties this week. The author showed how phrases, proverbs, slogans  include the essence of verse: they are pithy, catchy, have melody and make sense.

A stitch in time saves nine

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush

No man is an island

No taxation with representation

Each reflects sense, metre and rhythm, imagery, harmony of sounds and general form: the key elements of poetry. Good isn’t it? So, if a proverb reflects the composition of poetry, it also shows how broad poetry is and how  hard it is to define –  as will be  reflected in this month’s AT The Edge, Cavan which  takes place this coming Tuesday on 1^st July in the library in Cavan.

This month we have three poets, all very different, but each captures the key elements of poetry in different ways. I am lucky to have Stephen A Murphy who writes in a ballad form from Leitrim. His recent poem ‘Was it All for This?’ went viral two weeks ago.  And I am delighted to have Rachel Coventry from Galway whose poetry is different, it’s subtle and shaded. Paddy Halligan is the Cavan Man this month, hailing from Bailieborough and his poetry captures an Ireland at a crossroads of class, culture and moral identity. These changes are explored through simple family vignettes, corner-boy voyeurism and colourful characters.

So to coin a phrase

A treat in store!

I was taken aback this week by my reaction to the media coverage of the Normandy Landings and the Tuam babies. I found myself blinking back tears of anger and frustration. Not for the men who died on the beaches nor for the deaths of the children but for our brave new world.

 As the pictures of the great and good on the beaches were splashed across our monitors and angry words of indignation and blame were hurtled in the headlines and across Face Book about the Tuam babies, I began to feel uncomfortable.

 I saw all the great and the good on the beaches and somehow the word ‘glory’ came to mind. All those dead men, not glorious at all. All those torn and lifeless uniforms, not glorious at all. Why were they all there on the 6^th June 2014? To pay respect to the men who died? Or to be seen to pay respect? The latter I think. The media demanded it.

 I first heard Catherine Corless discussing her research into the deaths of the hundreds of children the 27^th May. She was calm, and informative. She wanted to discover their names and raise a plaque for the children to be remembered. It was shocking but I was not shocked. I have lived in Ireland for the last 20 years and sad to say I think I have become inured to the horrible stories of abuse and cruelty metered out by the State, the churches, the institutions and consequently by the communities they served. . But I was shocked by the clamouring voices. Suddenly there were demands for inquiries, and criminal investigations. How, I wondered. Who can be held responsible now?

 Yes, I believe that Truth Commissions and/or inquiries are important. Yes, I believe that we must acknowledge and accept our past, apologise for hurt, killings, abuse and try to understand how to change. But sometimes the wailing, and the blaming the media serves up in turn serves no good purpose.

 In both the Normandy Landings and the Tuam babies, the media was a blunt instrument. It stripped the two events of  the compassion and respect we need to give them. I am a believer in freedom of the press but now I find myself wondering whether we need to look at how the media serves us as a society or more importantly, how we, as leaders and readers, respond to its ever righteous and screeching demands.

 Or maybe, having entered my third age, I am becoming a cantankerous old woman.

Anthem for Doomed Youth

BY WILFRED OWEN

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

      — Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; 

 Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

 And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.

 The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.