Guth An Anam
Guth An Anam (Voice of the soul)
Aine Mac Aodha
“Our revenge will be the laughter of our children” – Bobby Sands “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” Oscar Wilde “I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams” W.B.yeatsGuth An Anam (Voice of the soul) I carried you; or we carried each other over ancient sites and thorny bushes to recall your forgotten voice lost through the layers of time. I carried you to Yeats County; with views of soothing Benbulben Mountain and you sang such beautiful tunes. You sang out too when I located the weather worn court tomb at Creevykeel. An ancient connection was made. When birds left the trees for sunnier climbs as winter caped above the house you were with me. You gave me music to open my soul again to the beauty in the landscape. Music; you are the voice of my soul. Aisling Often in the music of the wind in some stony place recalled to mind neglected tombs that now are seldom traced hold celtic knots and swirls upon its face. Knockmany passage tomb in all its presence instills in me the beauty of the ancients whose skill and art have traveled land and sea to keep our spirit in its company. I stand against this tomb of Carleton’s valley surrounded by the mountains, bog and beauty. united we sing songs towards the wind delighted at my growth of soul within. Leaving now this tomb of pagan origin; heightened thoughts renewed in earthy vision. The mindful song than sings along the breeze is forever placed within my memories. Note: Aisling – vision (Gaelic) Muscailt Awakened, made it through the veils of pitch, threaded with wars, flags and tribal intolerance; fixed on the horizons of my mind. In dreams the inland rivers claw like hunger towards the Atlantic coast gathering with it clotted memories, of a torturous past in every blast; rousing the shadows of Irelands ghosts. Tuatha de Danaan, the pilgrims, the famine and her coffin ships, the uprisings, internment, the troubles, the hunger strikes, sons, daughters…… Muscailt (“The Awakening” in Irish) A Prayer to the Integrity of Words Bless the verbs and nouns that carry rivers of verse in their hour of need. Bless their totality of wisdom greeting morality with novels amassed, usage, bringing yet; tribal flouncing and indecent drifting. Without the integrity of words our clans may never meet or greet, for many ensembles would slither un-heard. Night Aria Sounds of closing time ring out from the garage floor court the dog groans in her sleep at the distant sound of tyres spinning wildly in circles on the tar. Someone’s idea of fun. Reading late into the night the air gets colder just before dawn. In the company of birdsong; they care not for time on a clock out do each other in a frenzy of thrills, defending territories. They seem to snooze very little as night blends into day yet songs of the scolding black bird in the undergrowth sends me over the mountain to sleep; eventually. All for love You said you never cared for walking over boggy hills over rusty styles with bulls on the other side only to find a crumbling stone etched in lines you do it out of love. Watching in bewilderment as I spy a lone ogham stone in the centre of a field in Mountfield in the middle of nowhere and my spirit lifts at the sight of it. My mind gets to work on the stories this stone carries in its aura. My camera clicks many times. You do this out of love you say; like I do when the wilderness calls and I succumb to it’s voice Draiocht Magic happens in the cool waters of healing wells making the journey under clay; to offer up cures within its life force. I’ve seen it as winter blends its end of days into the arrival of spring. On mountains and boundaried fields as morning mist vanishes. Within myself when i forget the world a while do nothing except listen to the order of things or stare into space. Within the lunar cycles when moon phases stir the spirit in an ancient way; as it passes on its journey. Its there too on the faces of new born babies; reddened from the delicate path taken from womb to world, dark to light. Chicago Lake Michigan seemed to spread out like another Atlantic before me the river a hem; traced along the tall buildings. At night from Sears Tower; we saw the city lights; grids like lay lines as far as the eye could see. It was the year the cicadas appeared the drumming deafening. I preferred the cicadas to the noise in the North of Ireland then. They come with their love chorus every thirteen years. When the fireflies got a look in; how beautiful they were, their bursts of light reminded me of the fires on the hills at Beltane; or all hallows eve. I thought that paganism was the way to go; the on/off ceasefires seemed to run tally with the mixed marriage that ended a war within a war. In my mind again I’m sitting on the warm wooden step outside the new home in Chicago. The night sky bleeds constantly from the low flying planes of O’Hare as they routinely pass, you joked that you saw your mothers purple rinse at the crafts window waving the union jack and me Da the Tri-colour. Ireland and the north lingered still; on my clothes, hearts and brogue; there was a drive-by-shooting in the area we hadn’t a clue as to why; but learned later it was to do with bandanas and their colours. It comes down to colours and flags in the end I thought. Our outer landscapes may have changed our place of birth; of memory remained. “Cicadas are insects belonging to the family Cicadidae in the order Hemiptera*. Cicadas are recognizable by their large size (>1 inch) and clear wings held rooflike over the abdomen. Their life cycles are long, usually involving multiple years spent underground as juveniles, followed by a brief (roughly 2-6 weeks) adult life above ground.. As adults, males produce a loud song using specialized sound tymbals. These sounds are among the loudest produced by any insects roots” Island Home I’ve traveled very little from this island home. My native land grounds me keeps me in contact with the rhythms of nature, the sound of the winds, the call of the wild birds and the dialects of its people. Tyrone’s inland landscape of moss clad hills and flat bogs break every now and then like an ocean wave. Small towns and villages emerge lively and loud against the woven landscape One can drive for miles across back roads criss-crossing town lands whose names mean; stony path, fairly coloured field or hill of midges; before a village appears out of the hedgerows. Fintona, Seskinore, over the mountain to Fivemiletown. across the side road to Sixmilecross, Carrickmore, Gortin and to Omagh again, the view always lifts the spirit. Gortin village is one such place, hidden within the protective fauna of the forest and rough mossy hills flanking the road into the village. Fiddle music sails up from the music store. Cont’ I may not have traveled far; but this island Home; were the ancestors have left their marks on the land; in the form of art and awkward names, This will take me far away in my mind at times. Love Diminishes She watches their love die quietly. No storms or rough waters to master no acid looks or misfired cups but silently as bud in spring. The house they built on with love and hope a library of snapshots charting the years spent loving, laughing, raring the brood. Each picture a story, each flake of paint an unsaid feeling; left dormant. Wallpaper fades behind the silent gloss. She watched their love die quietly among the layer of years tending room by room in fancy décor, empty now of the children. All she can do is watch their love diminish. dried fruits on the bird table – bees hum soft raindrops – spring sings her lullaby heartbeat on paving stones Memories I hear her voice in the minds eye as I re-pot the Geraniums. “Keep them by the window they’ll get more light and water sparingly in winter” It’s funny how a flower or the faint smell of something familiar ignites a memory. Like a song even, that escapes at the right time from a car radio just as you pass, can stop you in your tracks, combing back a time of instant love, perhaps a first love that had vanished. Messages are found all around us if only we’d take the time to listen Our lives so busy. Learning to be still is a skill, quiet the mind once in a while, the messages will come; from the most unlikely places. Closing of Day Reminders of winter brush their wings against me. The sky lavender as day passes on this world of mine The last of the light dissolving into careless shadows that play foolish games on the eye. Moon is missing and stars fret her return to fullness. Closing times ring out in the faint frost carrying voice tones up into the air. Pockets of youths gather at the garage shop each singing their own song; each dressed for battle. Mr Clark totters past the gate breathing heavy; the hound in tow-showing him the way; the usual way; no free run of things. He catches my presence and waves; hand above head, filled with thought he continues. A car hurling like thunder on the road below does its best to do the ton, screaming almost like a banshee. I watch as a spider parachutes her web, it’s her time to work and the moths time to be on the lookout. I close the door to the wintry night. Seekers of truth Truths like crystals lie buried under earth under ancient oaks and long forgotten pathways leading to the ocean. In the songs of yesterday adrift on the spring mist as I gaze out over the hills. In layers of prayers petitioned to sky that soar to the universal spirit. In cosmic shifts, of the soul’s migration; from before birth to beyond the end of life. We seek it in books; in passing thoughts that nudge us towards a face in the crowd. In the faces of the old. With others on the journey, embraced, entwined truth emerges out of the dark returning as the light within. Starlings – under the roof space claws on wood spring cleaning. rose petals floating – small puddles reflect summer in sun drenched pools. flowerless Hawthorn bending against the winds path farewell to litha. Mind Maps The county swirls evermore into winter. Evenings; old blanket grey smears the sky. Lightening threaten its Amethysts strike across the small market town. Driving along the back roads to Fintona Omagh dissolves in the mist blown off the fields. A tin shed orange with rust appears out of the darkness. Fog; like ghosts; suddenly appear. Trees along the curling roads make tunnels before my eyes. Empty of cars i turn the lights off for a second. The scuttle of a hare startles me it stops for a look before scampering to the hedge. On the ten mile drive i meet no other drivers. These roads are the sneaky back roads over hills and through forested glades. Never found on road maps; but mapped on the mind. Returning to stony ground. I drove to the Stone circles at Beagmore an instinctual journey and need. The alignment slightly mossed over blown off the hills and boggy land. Passing the five sisters kettle holes reminded me of the many who died when their car drove off road into the bog at night, no lamp-posts on those roads then. These stone meant something to someone a calling to the tribes. Empty now of people apart from the odd person who climbed briers and stiles, without much help from signposts, just to enrich their soul, it’s that kind of place were the hustle and bustle of daily urban life vanishes for a while. A place that talks to you; not you to it. Takes you back to an ancient time. Disappearing world I can drive out of town and within minutes get lost amid the Tyrone landscape. Often in search of some stony place I once new and find it gone. Replaced by a house with Sperrin Mountain views right on the doorstep. The news of Gold mining at the beauty spot, Pigeon Top saddens the heart and eyes. Huge scoops of earth carried away in ignorant lorries leaving dirt trails as far a s the eye can see. In daydreams I weep for the land. Now that peace has come prospectors want a piece. A haven in the mind This land has molded me has scolded me like my father in shades of grief unspoken; spiritually tethered to it’s acres. Divided from one another by boundaries walls, flags, street names and the isolation of tribal words. My thoughts often turn inwards. The landscape of the soul changes when i wander the Tyrone hills filling my soul with moss coloured songs; of how nature always finds a way. Seasons blend into one another without much argument; they have a spirit of their very own and follow it no matter what. a headgehog looking my way lost in grief out of nowhere a bee hungry for summer Remembering When the ould pair died the music, for a while went also. A worn fiddle hangs by the chunky accordion. Airs recalled, in snapshots of scenes fiddlers night on local radio. Clearings on the lino waltzing to the beat one, two, three… Under the watchful eye of Blessed Oliver Plunkett they glided. I feel again the music swell in me where winter visits often. Like rivers that flow to the cold Atlantic the journey long. I listen to the waves I hear them, the music of the ould pair. (the ould pair, A way of saying the parents) Hares, at twilight arrive ears dive sky ward alert to any and every noise as they steal into the summer garden. Larger than my childhood memory of them inching through the grass in some ancestral way. Their grace and beauty blend with the landscape. Every so often standing upright like a warrior of old. On Main Street In the stillness of early morning, maples on Main Street whisper. Signs of life move into the air. Milk vans shuttle door to door of side streets. Steam from the Carlton bakery; begin its snail’s ascent over the roof, warming the alleyway as it rises. The Strule River ripples over flat stones catching the lamp lights perched antiquely on Bells Bridge. Sheela Na Gigs or look a likes stare from the corners of the chapel walls made worse by the blinking glare of the festive decorations. On the footpath by Greasy Joe’s café; the remains of a curry chip decorates the way, the culprit long gone. There’s something special about this time of the morning when the town and its occupants begin to rouse. There’s order, there calm, before flushes of life begin again with the torrent of youth thundering forward like shoals of fish all heading for the school gates. The courthouse hill a mass of uniformed brown and blue. Our stories We carry them on our faces like some visible vail or invisible back pack that travels with us from pillar to post. Staving ahead; making room for a few more on the journey. We hold them in our souls. We lay them on the hearth of a friend or maybe someone we meet by chance and our energies swap them for us, without the need of words. They are carried on footsteps drifting along on the night breeze taking them further a field again. Like a mothers knee they warm us on nights of pouring rain that’s beating hard against the window pane. St Teresa’s primary school ‘69’ Almost sheltered from the world by an umbrella of prayer. Smallish veiled nuns with lines mapped out on olive skin; wore over sized Crucifixes; pierced at heart level. Whispered prayers echoed through the boarded floors resonating in the old heaters. They taught of the starving babies in Africa; the droughts in India. Each girl handed a Trócaire box to take home. Every swear word uttered; a penny went into it; boxes were filled often without much argument from sinners. They taught a bit of everything; Needlework, cookery and historical facts about Henry the 8th and his many wives; but nothing of the 300.000 Irish sold to slavery in the new colonies of the West Indies and America’s, Nor of the fate of Ann Glover; sold to the planters; the first witch killed in the Massachusetts witch trials of 1688. Her native language confused as the devils tongue. I imagine she thought Cotton Mathers mad for thinking such a thing. Her a a mere washerwoman. The 60’s by-passed St. Teresa’s I think. Through the nuns we learnt the bibles history, the litanies, love for others; Respect. “You’d rarely see a nun dressed in habit these days” The Sperrin Mountains Take a dander over peat clad slopes Find the ancient past alive On the fringes of the Sperrins. Pigeon top, a silent view. Absorb, sponge like, the secrets of the mass rock were hooded priests pray in whispers. Beagmore stone circles retell hardships of bronze age man strong, creative protective of family clan. The Ogham stone of Greencastle notches ingrained, communicators of the barren landscape. Take a dander over the Sperrins sense the myths hidden in bedrock hear the echoes of the past re-claimed. Touched by madness In the first signs of spring the thawing frost the thawing wintered heart. When the words of a poem wrestles about in dreams lost in daylight hours. I’m touched by madness my madness, your madness. My friend madness that comes and goes as it pleases, wraps me in a shawl of bog cotton. The news at ten There was in our house a silence it banged in my eardrums followed me to bed under the watchful eye of Oliver Plunkett. Ears pressed tight on the hard feather pillow the eiderdown wrestled with coarse blankets. Silent drums paraded, fractured only by the ‘news at ten,’ “Whist” ‘13 shot dead in Derry’ Never much liked the news after that. Heirlooms If willow patterned plates could talk the stories they would hold given from mother to mother words ingrained on the soul. It would carry tears of an uprising from the home at Vinegar Hill ‘Basket women’ some called them mopping their men’s blood spill. They too became fighting women took all sorts to the men in the fields hidden in wicker baskets on the bars of their bicycle wheels. It sits with friends in the hallway the pattern now faded to grey almost a century; come Easter with a life time of tales to convey. under the moons light a hedgehog walks alone journeys end. Casting off. Getting beyond your land mass of hills, bog and the binding of a strict catholic upbringing takes some working. When mother poor of purse filled diligently the chapel envelopes for mass I rebelled. Shamefully I begrudged giving when wicker baskets were passed from row to row. The clink of coins set off a clink in me a change that has developed since and continues still. Mine is not a raging god who casts out revenge sending me to the fires of hell. I know that, feel it in my soul. Imbolc. Loitering out there somewhere in the heavy frosty air spring awaits. Among these familiar Tyrone hills fauna once coiled attempts to unfold in the morning mist. Underfoot in the dark rooms of the earth; a miracle is at work. Bulbs burst forth; ready to catch that light and spark of springs arrival. Life rumbles on unnoticed at first. Trees along the riverbank sing woeful songs about the noise of coughing cement mixers and lorries that cut trails into the valley; readied for tall shops and over priced flats. They sing at night in a low manner for the lost order of things; cows and sheep leaving for pastures new; hedge crawlers have all but disappeared from their view. A thousand years has passed its trunk, catching tales on the wind Secrets and shames of love and loss in childhood games. The mighty oak sing to the beat of re-generation. winters coat birds unable to furrow come close. against the window melting snow melting the moon May Eve. Beltaine on the lands hawthorn blossoms catch the wind air dressed in Mays’ coat swanning past the window pane. With simple fragrances blown, with it comes the butterfly. November Storm The wind tonight is merciless, tearing up the yard and throwing its damaged ego against the doors. Branches whip against the window pane, bin lids flap with dangerous jaws grabbing all that lands its way. Afraid to venture out for a sniff about the dog curls her back to it like a cat. We hear the leaves circulate at the door. Coal in the fire argues with the wind; hissing and spiting stubbornly; casting shadows on the wall like warriors or better still, angels. The wind tonight is merciless. Loretto convent primary Dress code was strict like the cataclysms repeated. Gabardine in navy blue; kimono, crisp white shirt, tie. White or black plimsoles a customary slipper bag. The nuns guarded the grounds like penguins on parade on the lookout for impudence. Our lady’s’ grotto, daisy chains Come mayday. Respect was a good thing. Mother Mona bent with age bore no warmth although welcomed us always. Married to god her happiness traced as lines on olive skin. Never liked a chatterbox more than once I had to hold my tongue at the blackboard; or stand for ages with arms out shoulder length, crucified, like Jesus. I think of Sister Joanne fresh faced, funny, light of heart. I couldn’t understand her calling then. The Magpie Two tone thieves gather like senators or tenors, slightly tipping as if heavy bellied. Green and purple smudged feathers glint as the sunlight catches them. They chatter on the trapeze of a fairy thorn. Ever vigilant, a salmons glance towards glinting treasures, presumed below in suburbs. They come, silent now, a pilots precision gliding towards the milk tops shining like fools gold on the door step, cute enough, they scan the house for noise, I stand; still as an Oak tree. Carefully they pluck the silver lid lap up the cream stash the lids in their beak and make off for the hill top again. Litha Longing for the coming solstice in celebration of the light the suns warming rays aid herb gathering in honor of mother earth and her fruitfulness. Snapshots Life now is consumed by words; snapshots of conversations lingerings of a dream recalled from many moons ago wandering in and out of mind; returning with flashes of insight. The note book I carry tells the tale of a woman possessed with knitting words into something. They carry me through the days the way others unearth weeds and rake the soil for new beds. I take these snippets on trips to the five sisters lakes or to Beagmore stone circles; hoping bronze age man might throw pearls my way. A walk through the town. The bells on the sacred heart chapel ring out the angelus in the faint frost. Brightly lit; the chapel dives skyward. Friday confessions, they somberly walk in. The world on their shoulders and within the hour emerge smiling again. Ready for the weekend; a clean slate, the sin-eater swallowed the badness and served it on a plate to old nick. The pavements glitter like reflected stars only it’s not stars, it’s John Street on a Saturday night and already the clubs filling up. Noises rise into the moonless night, Rock, club sounds traditional, Ambulances siren and loud shouting. A hen party arrives under the courthouse clock. Someone has already thrown up in Georges Street between the taxi office and the Chinese. Teens in spangley heels and boob tubes shiver, I want to wrap them in Mohair jumpers to keep warm. The Hillman Imp (a.k.a. The scottish hill-climber) ‘A devil of a wee car’ Da would brag. The embarrassment I’d think cube framed and as small as. It took us on weekend voyages crossing the border into Donegal coughing and percolating into Pettico, over rocky clumps, it wrestled the bendy roads . Killybegs meant fish forever poached, fried, boiled. Da, re-juvenated on the journey Ma delighted at glimpses of her flag. We took the long route home the air fused of trawlers, old holborn, whiskey chasers and sea weed. We stopped at intimate villages devoid of pound signs and iron fists. Native speakers greeted warmly in soft tones. ‘Where the sea met slate rock, we breathed salt air into fume filled lungs, returning inland more refreshed.’ On the windy hill his shell lies in the modern graveyard devoid of flowers and over the top headstones. Another parochial rule even in death the papal orders are engraved in the soil. Although entombed there on that windy hill with views of Gortin Glens and the Sperrins in every direction; his spirit is not there It’s here among us, with family ties. Striding along side me in my daily deaths Watching my unfoldment. Before I was born Not much of a honeymoon serenaded by the invaders in war stance; on the hunch of rebellion you were herded like cattle and interned on a pre-war prison ship! So; the bloodlines inherit the tremors. Barbed wire horizons greeted the sunrise your morning ‘taibreamh’ , a few songs away. Wedding bells now a stunned memory. So; the bloodlines inherit the tremors. Letters from home faintly scented with images and languages know in heart and vein; brought some comfort as the storms gathered. So; the bloodlines inherit the tremors. The lough; draconian to the boat full of women; jeered at from the shore as they approached the fragile wreck of the Al-rawdah. Assaulting your nostrils the cruelty of the oppressors. And so; the bloodlines inherit the tremors. ‘taibreamh Dream Ma’s Piano Apart from the regular news bulletin c/o my father music surrounded the home like a comfort blanket each of us had our own beat. In the living room pride of place a grand looking piano that mother had bought in an auction, thrilled her the very sight of it; never mind the sound. It was a big deal to have piano in the home then. Contentment to fathers’ erratic fiddle playing I thought. Together they weaved our childhood songs. She’d often on one hand play a song she’d learnt years ago before coming up North when life went by at a slower tempo. Sometimes at the end of the night her key on piano stirred a song in father; Sean Nos singing ensued and emotions took over. “Sean-nós singing is a highly-ornamented style of solo singing defined by one source as: …a rather complex way of singing in Gaelic, confined mainly to some areas in the west and south of the country. It is unaccompanied and has a highly ornamented melodic line….Not all areas have the same type of ornamentation–one finds a very florid line in Connacht, contrasting with a somewhat less decorated one in the south, and, by comparison, a stark simplicity in the northern songs” This song remembers… A song drifted from the neighbours’ yard volume high… I was back again at the disco. My sister sneaked me into the hall “Just copy me” The flashing light from the DJ box caught my eye. A lonely mirror ball floated above a lit up crossword styled floor, every now and then flashing on the beige walls. An out-of-town DJ clad in denim wearing cowboy boots and moustache; flipped his LP’s; then in a radio voice, “The first number of the night kicks off for all you lovers out there, “Love Is Like Oxygen “– Sweet Teachers Are we ready for them? They come to us through life some stay only a while whilst others stay a life time. Some in a passing word or expression others we have come to know gradually whose expansion of soul reaches ours. I often wonder if we appreciate those teachers who impart the knowledge we lack? I hope so. I have sensed it in their energy wrestled with the connection, tuned into their radio frequency; a message will come if we are alert enough. Bath a while in this beautiful transmission; adrift on the creation of ones soul for these teachers may only stay a short while. Night falls soon The powder pink evening combs the sky of summer like a comet trailing. My eyes dance the last waltz of daylight hours. A fiery Thrush bob’s its tail singing out its last chorus gathering up the young dallying below in town. Trees in eyeshot fan the horizon in gestures of a soft wave, calling the night creatures, return to the hedges and stone walls, . For the sun has retreated and the mistress of the moon has beckoned her night creatures on missions over field and stream. The wail of the sleek tom cat serenades the urban air, drifting out to rural pathways on the prowl. The Sniper Watching the morning rise above the house I open my eyes to the beauty of life’s offer The amethyst sky seriating the landscape the winding grey of the country roads wavering like smoke through the hills. The Victorian houses on Gallows Hill appear out of the fine mist, scary almost as the ghosts of the hanged, who perhaps; loiter through it’s red brick buildings, old yards and unevenly paved alleyways. Cattle balance their hooves upon a sphere of grass. A farmer in dungarees drives his quad bike against the wandering cattle unafraid of its scrambling in the mud. Winter loiters behind the hedges and hill sides a sniper awaiting Autumns’ end who cares not for the order of seasons or ancient god Lúnasa; But for his frosty breath to kill the germs that have gathered all summer. Aine MacAodha is a writer and amateur photographer from Omagh, situated in County Tyrone; North of Ireland. This is her second collection; her first collection ‘Where the three rivers meet’ was published in 2008. Poems first appeared. World Haiku Review, Vol. 6, Issue 3, Enniscorthy Echo, Peony Moon, The Glasgow Review, Celtic Myth Podshow, The Toronto Quarterly, Issue 1&2 of soylesi poetry magazine, Debris Magazine, Pirene’s Fountain, Essays and poetry at Luciole Press, Shamrock Haiku Journal. Also a keen photographer and member of, Saatchi online, Redbubble, Fotolibra, My Art space
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