In November of 2023, Clogh Writers group launched ‘Where I am’, a collection of poetry and prose from eleven different writers. As co-ordinator of the writers group Jane Meally said: “Where I am” is a publication where each writer communicates their passion to the reader.”
Having attended the launch in Clogh, The Kilkenny Observer Newspaper was quite taken with not only the publication, but the work ethic of the writers group. Over the next 11 weeks we reproduce some of that work, and are delighted to work hand in hand with this North Kilkenny writers group.
WEEK 1: This week we feature the work of Willie Joe Meally
Dying Trade
They come, delph rattling Buy a couple of mugs ma’am lovely plates goin’ chape,
lovely basin, there’s a bargain now!
My mother hands him holed enamel buckets and jugs, he sits on a three-legged stool
and hammers with delicate tools, warning us not to touch any, That’s a leprechaun’s hammer.
He talks all through his work, there are so many roads in Ireland and frogs flew at night,
Go on ma’am take something
what about these lovely plastic cups, bend them or bang them
hop them off the flags they won’t break,
don’t lave them on the hob, what do ya mane no money, give me a sup of milk for baby and the blessing of God on you.
They’re done now, they’ll last if minded, this is a dying trade lad,
there’s more money on scrap heaps!
She hands him silver coins,
he praises the strong tae and brown bread
God bless you ma’am.
He pulls on the reins,
the delph, hooves and lingering voices echo beyond the bend of the road.
A Night At Lacy’s
In the criss-crossing moments, our lives mingle, distance and memories cupped,
our voices wade through the flames. Porter and whiskey,
museum pub, artifacts of coal mine pictures of miners,
old farm tools bayonets from 1798,
dusty calendars dating back to the 40’s, posters of winning Kilkenny Hurling teams, a rope chair,
a settle bed.
Conversations turn and twist, lead to disagreements,
Wind power or fossil fuels
Who wants one in your back garden? Think of the air
You might as well have geese and ganders roaring What’s the alternative?
More porter flows,
the accordion tune begins handclaps encourage a song, feet tap and sway.
There’s a pretty spot in Ireland,
the Clare man sings one we never heard before the girl from Ardmore sings Bobby Magee.
Wind power and fossils become a symphony, forget the arguments
linger the night dreaming up old melodies.
He adds more logs to the dying embers, they crack and spit sap
before surrendering.
Old voices seem to murmur in the singing kettle
Sweet Chariot Coming for to Carry me Home
almost brings the crickets back to the hobs.
No longer strangers, we sit and stare
into the fire, shadows close around us.
Willie-Joe Meally
The Culm Dancers
Willie-Joe Meally
‘Dance!’ she tells them, ‘dance harder. Throw more water on there. More yellow clay. Fill in the edges. When the mixture is finished, make bumbs and lay them in the sun to dry.’ Another batch is being prepared and the dance continues. The children splash to their ankles in sticky mud in their bare feet. They laugh and sing until the batch is ready for bumb making. ‘Oh, it’s great to be young and agile,’ comment the older women sitting around the batch.
The Angelus Bell rings in Moneenroe and the world stops for a while. It is lunch time; the children wash their hands and feet in the stream and joyfully sit on forms around a wooden table, tucking into soup and new potatoes. Their Aunt Maureen reads a story to them from an old Reader’s Digest that came in a Hope trunk from Boston, USA. The story is about a runaway train heading into the desert, her tone of voice, rising and falling as the train flashes and struggles through the terrain. The children grip the edges of the table and sway as if they are on the train. The train approaches a cliff edge. The children scream. Suddenly there is a loud clap. The book is closed. ‘Let’s get back to work,’ says Aunt Maureen.
The next job is collecting yellow clay from the bank mounds in Larue. The buzzer blows in the Deerpark, sending a shrill message across the Colliery. Cattle race into bushes, afraid of the gadfly; their tails stick up like spears. John Blake mows the swamp field. A green-yellow frog leaps between the horse’s legs. Aunt Maureen and the children carry the yellow clay home in enamel buckets. Aunt Maureen empties twenty buckets of coal dust onto
the yard, followed by four buckets of yellow clay. They mix it dry first; then water is added. The dance begins again. Their bare feet pound the fine mixture until it becomes a sticky culm and the batch is ready for bumb making. Some of the older women, sitting round the batch, join in the bumb making.
A black cloud appears over Loon. ‘It looks like rain,’ says one of the older women. They carry the freshly made bumbs into the house and gently place them on the hot hobs to dry. The sun lowers. Jim brings home the cows to be milked. Jack lays a whitethorn hedge between two pastures. Blood seeps into his white shirt from a tear of a briar. A corncrake pitches her voice across the Long Meadow.
When supper is over, the rosary is recited. The forms are placed around the hearth flag. The paraffin wick is lowered and stories begin; stories about the mines, stories about haunted houses, or the deep. Blue and yellow sparks disappear up the chimney. The wind swirls around the kitchen door. The moon shines through the lace curtains. ‘Everyone to bed,’ interrupts Aunt Maureen, ‘we’ll have more dancing and stories tomorrow.’
The children run into their beds. The glow from the paraffin lamp sends shadows
around the house.
