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 2 : This week we feature the work of Kevin Dowling
Days Like This
On days like this
when sun smiles and laughter fills the air with song
it’s easy forget there will be times
when tears flood your eyes,
when you dread the phone’s shrill call or a midnight knock brings trouble. So, remember this well,
fill your heart with treasure
to bring out when most needed, for on days like that
you will not recall days like this.
Kevin Dowling
Ghost Story
On a night brilliant with stars
wind wrapping ‘round you like a shawl You pass the tree huddled lane forbidding even in daylight.
A movement catches your eye of which you will never speak.
That path guarded by a headless dog, neighbours whisper.
Stories shyly shared like best china
brought out when visitors call.
That Halloween story forgotten,‘til a bright Saturday morning you claimed a black dog lay under the table
while you smiled indulgently at my attempt to chase it out.
Kevin Dowling
Pheasant Season
My mother reared pheasants for the local club, feeding them grain for the coming season.
Hearing her voice, they’d follow her across the yard, almost pets. Months later they’d return, nesting nearby. When November came, she’d shoo them,
safe into their old pen.
After my father returned late and empty handed from the hunt, she’d ask, ‘Any luck?’
When he smiled, shaking his head out she would go to let them loose. ‘The poor wee chicks,’ she’d say and they both laughed, watching as they tumbled out,
chirping in the cool night sky.
Kevin Dowling
Sunday Records
Sunday mornings after Mass, while we watched ‘the big match’ in glorious grainy black and white,
Anne came over, a treasure of records under her arm.
Mother whooshed us out to play
as you chatted over tea and old songs. Later you danced across the kitchen,
giggling ‘excuse me’ as you bumped the table, and the record would skip,
its small voice trapped
‘til you teased the needle back into the well-worn groove.
Turning up the volume,
the lilt of Larry Cunningham beautiful in the grey London sky.
Kevin Dowling
Two Left Feet
(learning to dance)
We gathered in a draughty hall. ‘Left, right, left, sweep the feet, turn.’
The instructor marched me down, then back
Wagon Wheel repeated over and over, his fixed smile struggling to be patient, both my left feet finding it hard,
the command from head to leg not yet natural.
We started with foxtrot, then waltz, then more, dances feeling easier as night wore on.
‘Don’t forget to smile,’ he said. I smiled forgetting myself.
‘Mind her feet, don’t look down.’
Later as we tidied up the teacher smiled. ‘You’ll get there yet, see you next week.’
I never quite made it, never became graceful, more duck than swan
though sometimes I surprise myself.
I have great friends from those winter nights and we often laugh at remembered stories but that song still haunts me.
Kevin Dowling
