THE WALK

I found I had walked to Athernay

past Cobbler Hill and Lovers Bridge

its secrets and forgotten names carved

deep on silent ageing wood

generation upon generation

love upon love

dream upon dream

past Tinkers Path where the wind lived

where the rain cut the traveller

like drops of broken glass

through Cottage Row and the smell of open fires

warming winter days

and winter hearts

to Vendors Way and the four gas lights

that cast yellow life on busy windows

busy streets

and busy people

on past Station Halt with its empty chairs and

Widows list

to the church on the hill

“O be my strength in quiet days”

and Beggars Field

no glance to left or right at such a place

no need to see new names

new holes

new flowers

but still I lingered there a while

and a while longer

and longer still

till I awoke in grey white sheets

that covered all there was of me

all not left in foreign mud

to walk on foreign soil

and foreign flowers

in search of Athernay.

RAT AGAINST THE WALL

This excerpt is taken from a novel entitled “Rat Against the Wall”.  The novel is about Billy and deals with four days in his life, growing up in a Loyalist area of Belfast called the Shankill.  In this scene Billy and his friend Roy have a run-in with the local paramilitary leader.

Billy and Roy continued to walk towards the chippy.  Suddenly Billy noticed an alertness on Roy’s face - then fear crept across his features.

“Oh, Billy, look, it’s your man Butcher.”

“So what? He’s all right.”

“To you, but he’s looking me. He’ll kill me if he gets me.  I’ll go down to the shop and you get the fags and go to the chippy.”

“Well, what do you want?”

“The same as you just.  And if he asks you about me, tell him you haven’t seen me in days.”

“What’s he looking you for?”

“Somebody told him I was sniffing glue.”

“I told you about that, didn’t I?  Listen, he’s not that bad, just tell him the truth.  It’ll be all right.”

“It’ll be all right!  He’ll break my bloody legs!  Ah - here he’s coming,” and with that Roy ran off.

“Billy, get over here!” shouted Butcher.

Billy began to walk across the road, stopping for a moment, midway, to let a car pass.  Reaching the other side, Butcher made the few steps from the doorway of the chippy to the kerb.  Holding out his arm, he took Billy by the shoulder.

“What have I told you about him, eh?”

“I was only walking down the street with him.”

“Billy, I don’t care, you know what you’ve been told. That’s a wee tramp - glue bag. You’re a good wee loyalist, you don’t need to be running about with the likes of him.”

“Butcher, we were only going to get some chips.”

“All right, come on then, that’s where I’m going.”

The pair strolled to the chippy door; Butcher forcefully pushed open the big, brown door making a loud screeching sound as the door scraped along the red floor tiles.  As the door came to a halt, Billy entered the chip-shop behind the much larger Butcher.  He was engulfed by the heat and smell of cooking food.  Just then, a small woman in an over-sized cardigan lifted a wire bucket on to the edge of the stainless steel fryer.  She poured the contents into the bubbling oil, releasing a loud “hiss” and then a fountain of steam came from the fryer, rising slowly to the ceiling.  The woman pulled down the accordion lid of the fryer, ending the rush of steam and muffling the noise of the wet chips' reaction with the hot oil.

“Here, Aggie, put us in five fish-suppers,” boomed Butcher as he made his way to the counter.

Billy stared up at the bright orange board with its black writing, listing all that the chippy sold and the prices.  Billy already knew what he wanted, but was reluctant to ask for what he had decided on, because Butcher might ask him why he wanted two.

“Billy, what do you want, Son?” came the voice from behind the counter.  Billy looked to where the voice had come from: it was old Ruby.  She gave him a big smile and prompted him for a reply.

“Two steakettes in baps, Ruby.”

Before Billy could finish, Butcher butted in and said.

“Who’s the other one for, eh, eh, Billy?”

Butcher looked right into Billy’s face with a serious expression.

“It’s for me.  I mean they’re both for me.”

“You’re pissing me about, Billy.  It’s for the tramp Roy, isn’t it, isn’t it?”

“No, Butcher, they’re both for me, honest,” replied Billy, who was now beginning to panic.  What was coming next he thought to himself.

“Listen, Billy, you’re a good wee kid, I’m only doing this for your own good.  You’ll be in with us soon.  We don’t want some tramp like that leading you astray.”

Billy looked at Butcher, turning his glance towards the two women.  They had stopped what they were doing and were looking at the men.  Billy’s face went red as he realized the women had heard all that they had said.

“Come over here,” said Butcher as he put his arm on Billy, drawing him to the other side of the chippy, away from the women’s attentive ears.

“Billy, do you remember last year we done your man up the entry?  When you found that gun in the old dam, and you came and told me where it was - and we got it out of the road?”

“Yes.”

“Well, your name’s on the roll - maybe the end of the summer and you’ll get in.  You’d be one of the boys.  No more standing at corners then, eh.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes, so don’t get involved with scum.”

At that Billy’s heart began to beat faster.  The fact that someone like Butcher was to bring him in to the “Boys” made him feel really good inside.

“There’s one thing, Billy.”

“What’s that?”

“Don't tell anyone at the corner; there’s touts hanging about it.  Once you’re in, we’ll get you going to the interrogation classes, in case you’re lifted.  But until then, say nothing, all right?”

“You bet, Butcher, I’ll tell nobody.  You know me; I can keep my mouth shut.  Not a word.”

“One more thing, Billy, if there’s any glue sniffing going on up at the corner, you’ll come to me right away - and if there’s anything being sold - right to me.  You know what has to happen to house breakers!”

“Yes, Butcher, if I see or hear anything like that, I’ll tell you right away.  You know where my loyalties lie.”

“Here, Billy, Son, what do you want on these?” came old Ruby’s voice.

Billy walked to the counter.

“Salt and vinegar, aye and some red sauce, Ruby, please.”

“I’ve given you some chips as well, Son.”

“Thanks, Ruby.”

Looking over the counter Billy watched as the woman splashed vinegar on to the chips from an old lemonade bottle, next some salt and lastly the red sauce.  As she lifted the top half of the bap, Billy noticed the semi-circles of dirt under her nails; he cringed at the sight.  Placing the top of the bap on the steakette, she quickly wrapped them in newspaper.

“That'll be...” but before Ruby could finish her sentence, Butcher shouted.

“I'll get that!  Do you want any thing else, Billy?”

“No, Butcher, that's great!  Are you sure?”

“Yes, now get away on with yourself and have a good night, Kid.  I’ll be seeing you.  OK?”

“Thanks, Butcher, thanks.”

Ruby handed Billy two paper parcels.  Turning to the door, Billy thanked Butcher once more and said goodbye, then left the chippy.

As he walked back to the corner, Billy was amazed at what had just taken place in the chip-shop.  The thing that he had always wanted had just come to pass - he was to be one of the “Boys”.  Then a little smile appeared.  If Butcher had known that he just bought Roy’s food, he’d go mad - and if Roy knew he’d choke!

OOOOOOO

BUDDHISM

If the chosen path of the Buddha himself was a challenge to the people of his day, it is no less so to the people of today.  His life story depicts rejection of wealth, power and pleasure-seeking.  Sooner or later, their pursuit leads to suffering.  Thus the reason for detachment is not some mere condemnation of enjoyment for its own sake, but a search for a deeper and lasting state of well-being.  Suffering and self-denial was also abandoned by the Buddha for it would simply be a kind of spiritual grasping.  His aim might be defined as moving lightly through the world, accepting the necessities of life as they come, but not acting in any way which could fuel the process of suffering for himself or others.

He called it “Middle Path”, which is “Maddya Prathipada” in the Sanskrit language.

POETRY IN THE IRISH LANGUAGE

Sé do bheatha chun Sibhsé a cairde ó an lorua agus Bhulgáir.

Hello to you, my friends, in Norway and Bulgaria.

Taím Mac leinn Fhoglaím I Maghaberry anseo, agus tá mé ag fhoglaim chun scroibh filiocht agus scealtá béag.

I am a student here in Maghaberry, and I am learning to write poetry and short stories in the Irish

Scroibh mé an dan Seo I ndiaidh bhas ar mo mhac a fuair bas trí mblain o shin.

Scroibh me dan san formaid ar cuimhneachan.

I wrote this poem in the form of a memorium to mark the anniversary of my son’s death.  He died suddenly three years ago.

Leím an dan sa Gaeilge ar dtus na sa bearla.

I will read this poem in Irish first, then in English.

Chonaic mé tusa tríd an bhearna a mhic, bhi tusa I do shuí ar réalta.

Chuala na Daoine maithe machaine thostach, agus dfhag siad said an doras leathoscailte.  D’fhag siad croí a bhi briste.

Dairigh siad na deora ciúin , agus dhúisigh said I mo chroí cuimhe luachmhar a phroinsias, cuimhne a dfhag tusa ar fud na mblianta.

Nuair a éirionn an phianpháis a mhothaím le linn tú a chilleadh, níos mó ná tá mé abaltá fulaingt, druidim mo shúile agus smaoinim orsta, agus tá tú gconai ansin.

Feicim d’aghaidh i ngach scamall, cluiním do ghuth ar an ghaoth, nuair ata an ghealach airgeaduil ag eiri, is tú an ga-gealai a ghealaíonn mo sheomra.

Le caitheamh na haimsire crothnaim tusa a thuilleadh agus I dtir na nóg inniú, banríon na nDaoine Maithe glacfaidh sí do lamh, agus pogfaidh do leicne, agus dearfaidh sí.

“Tríd ghleann na ndeor agus an dorchadaís, thar an dóbrón agus an phian, tá d’athair ag Caoineadh a leanbh, a leanbh a chreideann sé go bhfeicfidh sé arís.”

Go dtí sin a mhic, is fada uaim thú, Daidi faoi choimirce Bhrighde thú a phroinsias a mhic sa tsíoraíocht.  Go raibh do Loístín I measc Laochraínaféinne anocht agus go deo.

Gur geal do loístín I dtir na haoige le hAine agus le deithe uile ar Sinsear.

The poem translates roughly into English as follows:

I saw you through the opening, Son, you were sitting on a star.

The good people, they heard my silent plea, and they left the door ajar.

They saw that a heart was broken, they heard the silent tears and they awoke in my heart precious memories, Frankie, memories you left throughout the years.

When the pain and heartbreak of losing you becomes more than I am able to bear,

I close my eyes and think of you, and Frankie, you’re always there.

I see your face in every cloud, I hear your voice on the wind,

When the silvery moon is rising, you’re the moonbeam that brightens my room.

With the passing of time I miss you more, and in “the Land of the youth” today the queen of the good people, she will take your hand, and kiss your cheek and say:

“Through the valley of tears and darkness, beyond the sorrow and pain, your Father is crying for you, his child, a child he believes he will see again”.

Until then, Son, loved and sorely missed by Daddy, may you be under Bridget’s protection for Eternity.

May your lodgings be bright among the Fenian warriors tonight and forever.

May your lodgings be bright in “the Land of Youth” with Aine and all the Gods of our ancestors.

na Daoine maithe or “Good People” referred to in the poem are to those who believe “The Fairy Folk of Ireland”.

Bhridhe or Bridget is an ancient Irish Goddess.

Dtir na nóg or “ the Land of the youth” is a place where you go to when your time in this world is over.  To those of us here in Ireland who follow the “Gaelge Siog” faith, it is a kind of other world, very similar to the Christian Heaven.  Dana and Aine are Queens in this other world.

Na feinne Laochraí or Fenian warriors are an ancient band of warriors who fought in Ireland in days long gone, but who, according to Irish legend, lay in slumber, awaiting the great call, which would awaken them to answer Ireland’s call.

Scroibh me dan fosta tamill faoí an gortach na tá a fhois measc na gealí an orcas mhor.

I have also written a poem about the famine or “The Great Hunger” as it is known among the Irish.

In 1847 a terrible disease swept across Ireland, attacking the potato, the Irish people’s main source of food at that time. One and a half million people died of the hunger, and a further one and a half million people left these shores and went to new lands, to escape from the poverty and suffering.

Scroibh mé an danseosa gaeilge ach os crione mo chaíre leím an dan sa bearla.

I wrote the poem in the Irish, but for your benefit, my friends, I will read the poem in English.

Why is my mammy crying, Daddy, is it because the potatoes have blight,

And have taken to turning black in the pot, whereas before they stayed fluffy and white?

Why is the Lord in the manor house throwing poor families off their land?

Surely in times as hard as these, wouldn’t you think he’d understand?

Our family and friends who board the big ships grow more in number each day,

But will their pain and suffering cease when they reach America?

I’ve heard my Granny tell Aunt Katie the government have imported Indian maize,

But the stuff it runs right through you, and we live in sad, dark days.

Can I join you on the road works, Daddy, next week I will come of age,

Just think of the extra food we could buy if I give me mammy all of my wage.

Daddy, I’m awful thirsty now, can’t I have a cup of tea?

Is that Father Donnelly standing there?  Daddy, why is he blessing me?

Daddy, it’s growing awful dark, yet the birds still sing in the sky,

Why is my mammy crying, Daddy? Daddy, am I going to die?

An chead dan Scroibh mé I ónoraígh ar mo sheanathair, Fhearr mhór, bhí sé é, cé fhoglaim chun mise, an healaiiona uaisle de an poítsealaí.

The next poem you will hear, I wrote in honour of my Grandfather, a great man.  It was he who taught me the fine art of poaching.

Arís an dan seo bhí scriobh é sa gaeilge ach leím sa bearla é.

Again, this poem was written in the Irish, but I will read it in English.

When the silver moon is rising

And the tide is ebbing slow.

A voice whispers from the darkness,

“It’s time boys, off we go.”

The oars as they cut through the water,

Barely a ripple they make.

Steady hands feed the net out,

“Make sure it’s cast in our wake.”

The oarsman’s skill it comes to the fore

And soon the boat reaches the spot

Where the salmon are heading back out to sea,

“Tonight boys, we’ll catch the lot!”