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New Hibernia Review 9.2 (2005) 42-49



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Filíocht Nua: New Poetry

The Museum at Cullowhee

In North Carolina
I saw a people's heritage
preserved in showcases:
a map, sea routes
of Scots-Irish migration,
a plough, a spinning wheel.
Symbols of men and women
who made the mountains home.

In the darkened room
of a thatched cottage
hauled stone by stone from Ireland,
a grate with its stack of peat,
wicker baskets, tin plates.
Artifacts in a candle-lit tomb.
I looked at the small objects,
in their simplicity
beautiful as children's faces.

A woman beside me whispered,
"Do you know Ulster?"
Her voice an immigrant's longing.
A wind came up as we spoke,
rustling the autumn-colored forests.
The names blew away from us,
vanishing like the ghosts of settlers
in the blue mists
of the Smoky Mountains. [End Page 42]

Allta*

Walking on the hills
I thought of your story.
Out of the autumn sky
a goshawk flew before you
as you wandered above Lough Dan.

You heard a chaff whistle.
Nearby, on the gray lake
a lone duck swam.
Save for a little wind
all else was silent.

Then, you told me,
the goshawk landed on a
moss-covered stone
and fixed you with its
stern, yellow eye.

Observing this Northern bird,
you stood absolutely still.
Suddenly it swooped
above your head, its call
a strange, harsh cry.
As if to tell you,
"You are disturbing
my world, my earth,
my sky." [End Page 43]

Company Manners

Today I saw a teapot,
a spray of wildflowers
on its rotund sides,
a plump knob on its lid.
Coated with a creamy glaze
it speaks to me
of gentility.

Long ago, in Ireland,
my mother's tea parties,
at the tea table—its cloth
starched to perfection—
napkins, gauze thin,
neatly laid beside
old china plates.

A silver sugar bowl
beside a milk jug,
wreathed in roses.
On silver dishes
the proverbial
cucumber sandwiches
and iced coffee cake.

A bevy of ladies
in flowery hats
and flowered tea-gowns.
Inconsequential banter,
light and lilting tones.
A flow of sweet talk,
the essence of civility.

And myself, six years old,
sitting quietly in an
upright chair, hands
folded in my lap,
saying nothing.
Which is why, years later
I remember everything. [End Page 44]

Three Rock Mountain
Dublin

Your gentle slopes a backdrop
to the spires and towers
of my old city,
crowned by your massive boulders,
three sentinels watching over the valley.

Walking up there in sunlight
I could see down the distant
Georgian streets and squares
and beyond, the blue stretch
of Dublin Bay.

When I think of you I am uplifted.
Your bogs and uplands,
a palette of soft browns and greens;
your slopes bathed in the golden
light of a summer morning.

The best time was evening,
perhaps in Autumn,
when the city twinkled
and the lighthouses sent beams
out across the water.

Then, as I hiked,
I'd hear the birds below me,
a last evening chorus
singing your praises,
dear mountain of the soft shoulders. [End Page 45]

Burning Coal

There was a way to build a fire,
forgotten now.
Twists of newspaper
in the cradle of the iron grate,
kindling laid crosswise,
small pieces of coal
placed as on a cairn.
We struck a match
and smoke curled upwards.

Irish winters, long ago
we sat by the hearth,
watched paper burst into flame,
fluttering rose and gold
and heard the crackle of wood and coal.
It was cozy by the fire.
We chatted and told old stories.

As the fire died a small flame,
flickered in the hearth.
The coal crumbled to ash,
a chill entered the room.
Outside wind blew from
the wild Atlantic.
With goodnight kisses
we went to bed
in our chilly rooms.

In the West of Ireland,
legend says, people carried live coals
from an old house to a new hearth—
a way to forge a link with ancestors.
My only link is memory.
In memory the little fugue of flame
jumps and whispers,
companion to the...

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