Windy Writing

I haven’t been blogging much recently because I’ve been trying to stay away from the Internet and do some serious writing. Not that the Internet isn’t home to some serious writing … of course it is. It’s just also home to nonsense like this and this and this, all of which are ludicrously addictive. But […]

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The Dream Against The Deed

Poet Patrick Deeley has written a beautiful memoir about growing up in East Galway. The Hurley Maker’s Son has been hailed for its evocative prose, and for its moving celebration of life in rural Ireland in the 1960s. As a child, Deeley was something of a misfit in his family: a loner, a dreamer, and […] […]

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April A to Z: Y is for Yeats

By Niall McArdle   Anglo-Irish poet William Butler Yeats died seventy-five years ago in 1939. Born in Dublin in 1865, he was one of the driving forces of the Irish Literary Revival. He co-founded the Abbey Theatre. In 1923 he became the first Irishman to win the Nobel Prize for Literature (the others are Shaw, Beckett and […]

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April A to Z: H is for Heaney

By Niall McArdle It’s been 7 months since the sudden death of Seamus Heaney, and for those who care about poetry the tragic loss is still fresh,. By the way, April in the United States is National Poetry Month. His life and work will be celebrated on April 23rd at the National Concert Hall in Dublin. […]

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Dublin: One City One Book

Dublin: One City One Book

Dublin Made Me by Donagh MacDonagh

Dublin made me and no little town
With the country closing in on its streets
The cattle walking proudly on its pavements
The jobbers, the gombeenmen and the cheats

Devouring the fair-day between them
A public-house to half a hundred men
And the teacher, the solicitor and the bank-clerk
In the hotel bar drinking for ten.

Dublin made me, not the secret poteen still
The raw and hungry hills of the West
The lean road flung over profitless bog
Where only a snipe could nest

Where the sea takes its tithe of every boat.
Bawneen and currach have no allegiance of mine,
Nor the cute self-deceiving talkers of the South
Who look to the East for a sign.

The soft and dreary midlands with their tame canals
Wallow between sea and sea, remote from adventure
And Northward a far and fortified province
Crouches under the lash of arid censure.

I disclaim all fertile meadows, all tilled land
The evil that grows from it and the good,
But the Dublin of old statutes, this arrogant city
Stirs proudly and secretly in my blood.

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