taking stock by Safety Publishing Ltd

Taking Stock

This book of poetry is dedicated to the memory of my daughter

Catherine

Taking Stock Book One

Micheal O’Donnell

Printed in Ireland by: Walsh Colour Print Tralee Road, Moanmore, Co Kerry Tel 066 714 2179 © 2018 Michael O’Donnell. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of Michael O’Donnell 3

From Dr. Naoise Synott The proceeds of this book will go to the Cancer Clinical Research Trust (CCRT), a registered charity which supports patient-related cancer research at different Dublin hospitals and universities.

Researchers from CCRT based at St Vincentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s University Hospital and University College Dublin have recently shown that a new drug known as APR-246 can prevent the growth of triple-negative breast cancer cells in the laboratory. If found to be successful in clinical trials, the drug has the potential to save lives for patients with a form of breast cancer which is currently difficult to treat. The research was carried out by post-doctoral research scientist Dr. Naoise Synnott, under the supervision of Professor Joe Duffy and Professor John Crown, and was published in the International Journal of Cancer. The research team now hopes that APR-246 can be tested among patients in clinical trials which, if successful, could lead to the drug being made available for patients with triple-negative breast cancer.

Your support for CCRT will enable this and other research projects on cancer to continue. The Cancer Clinical Research Trust is dedicated to reducing the burden of cancer suffering through the development of improved treatment for cancer patients.

From Dr. Naoise Synott . Cancer Clinical Research Trust

You can donate directly to: Cancer Clinical Research Trust Charity Number: CHY12210 www.ccrt.ie

Forward by Dr Lucy O’Donnell I volunteered to write this forward for my father in law, keen to say something about the project, the poems and the author. Michael O’Donnell’s poems have come together in this publication to raise money for triple negative cancer research. Michael lives on Achill Island and throughout his life his vocations have included fishing, farming, teaching, first aid, building and designing. By highlighting the breadth of these vocations I wish to reflect upon them as opulent credentials for the practice of writing poetry as poetry draws on and out experience(s). Michael’s book is titled Taking Stock. This phrase describes a process used to think about a situation or event and importantly to form an opinion about it so that one can decide what to do. Major loss and devastation shock up our family when triple cancer took Catherine Ann from us at the age of 33 in 2017. You cannot ever really “decide what to do” when the perniciousness of cancer is a reality. However the wreckage of cancer demands sobering processing, action and support. For Michael this motivated a return to poetry as Catherine had asked her dad to write a book of poetry and donate the proceeds to triple negative cancer research. Looking out to the world at people, places and events form the main themes of the poems. In this forward for Taking Stock I want to draw attention to the value of experiences; how they intertwine with our faculties to think and imagine. I want to start by considering the materiality of words. Words are spoken, written, printed, painted, and seen. In a 2006 publication Between Philosophy and Poetry Writing, Rhythm, History, edited by Massimo Verdicchio and Robert Burch relationships between poetry and philosophy are examined. This is a complex relationship, and one I will not untangle in this forward. However I wish to draw attention to how our alphabetic practice of writing is a device utilized by both poets and philosophers and ask does poetry’s relation to the archaic model of orality contest this alliance? Poetry is inherently associated to speech and dialogue. A useful way to approach the distinction is described by Carlo Sini in his contribution Gesture and Word who says ‘People have always been thinking and poeticising without really knowing it, philosophy just revealed this universal truth’. What is key for me from this passage are not questions of truth (where its structures and principles loiter between affirmed acts of judgment, consciousness and object subject experiences) but how philosophy contributes to addressing abstract notions of thought. I would like to emphasize in this forward thought as interwoven with experience(s). Martin Heidegger is a useful philosophical model of uniting poetry to philosophising with his terminology of poetics of thought. I’m not interested in defining thinking or validating it, but to celebrate how poeticising connects us to the world reforming experience by enjoying the play between the materiality and morality of words.

Poiesis is a term derived from the ancient Greek ποίησις it describes an activity in which a person brings something into being that did not exist before. We except the definitions of words are reshaped over time, and their use and underpinning value reshapes knowledge structures. An example of this is the early fifth century BC pre-Socratic Greek Philosopher Parmenides who’s thinking around noein, a philosophical term for the factuality of the human mind considered the importance of taking something true with the mind or knowing by intuition. Later Plato revisited Parmenides noein and proposed the improved term dianoia or how we know it today as ‘thinking’ and not as merging knowledge with intuition but instead thinking as distinguished from both ‘sensation’ and ‘imagination’. I raise this in this forward for Michael’s poems to remind us that our senses are means to jointly wonder at the world and give back to it in the same vain. By directing our imaginations, speculations and actions to words we can reevaluate their materiality and draw out things that were not present before. Reshaping words is a useful phrase here as it empowers their vocal ephemerality. In a recent radio conversation The Last Poets talked about poetry as like: peeling a piece of yourself off to show it to the world. These socially committed MC’s based in Haarlem New York, talked about the visceral and cathartic experience of writing poetry that connects to the rhythms of the earth, creating medicine to heal ourselves. I found myself thinking about Michael’s project and poems, admiring how despite the distance of the Atlantic Ocean, cultures and politics that separate these people they unite in their imaginations, liberated and propelled in spoken word voicing experiences and their realities. I would like to present these poems as a collection of writings that in part come out of a difficult time, yet underscore the all encompassing pleasures and dreads of human experience. Michael ponders histories and geographies of place and peoples. This collection of poems includes observations and experiences of Achill Island. They contemplate and interweave the activities and presence of the land, traditions and peoples. Achill’s magnificent ethereal landscape features in the collection with poems that focus upon the significance of the sea and its importance to the islands fishermen. It brings together remarks about farming, tractors and cars, the transport and necessity of the workings of the island. Other works capture the sea and its mystic atmospheres, a focus of many poets and artists on the island. Poems reflect the weather; seasons and the bog, with an unexpected and warm entry titled The Seasons written by Catherine Ann aged 9. The poems that connect to and open up the landscape go from the domineering mountains, to the returning beach of Dooagh, the ancient dwellings of the deserted village the more recent erecting of Achill henge and the daunting road to Keem! These domineering characteristics of Achill are balanced by observations of the magpie bird.

Irish traditions are also represented with works that relate to working the land, weaving and writing Celtic manuscripts. The collection is nicely balanced with reflections of people, for example the importance of friends and reflections of Catherine Ann. Other subjects bring to the fore uncomfortable histories such as practices of Institutions like The Magdalene Laundries and other similar Institutions nationally and internationally. The sorrow of unmarked children’s graves and the Tuam Babies treatment and graves appear in the poems. And the tatie hokers poem focuses upon uneasy reality of both young and old in the fields picking potatoes. Other themes draw our attention to the necessity and difficulties of relocating for work. I’d like to briefly return to the idea that thinking is distinguished by both ‘sensation’ and ‘imagination’. These poems take stock; they look out and reshape wonders drawing on and out experience(s). However whilst taking stock they reshuffle nearer to stocktaking and reassess sensation and experience rather than taxing solutions. After all… whatever way around we use this title, the variable, repositioning of words mischievously destabilizes our thoughts and encounters. I would like to conclude this forward by thanking those who have generously backed this project. We would like to thank all of our family and friends who have offered invaluable support. Dave Olley of Safety Publishing Ltd, who supported the project with advice and guidance. A special thanks to Kate O’Malley who has helped publicize and promote the book and a special thanks to Scoil Acla for promoting the launch of this book. Michael and I invited a range of artists, friends and family to respond to the poems by making a drawing. These give the book a diverse range of visual readings and mark the diversity and accessibility of drawing celebrating its agency in contemporary fine art practices. We especially want to thank Dr Naoise Synott, Professor John Crown, Professor Joe Duffy and Operations Manager for Cancer Clinical Research Trust Dr Karen Culhane for their expertise, which enhances our knowledge and treatment of triple negative cancer. It is to this research the proceeds of this book are donated.

CONTENTS 4

Prologue by Dr, Naoise Synott

She Means Business

Forward by Dr. Lucy O’Donnell

Sleet and Snow

The Friends

Is There Anyone Here I Can Trust

The Window

Ancient Achill Tombs

Adopted

Stolen

Achill Henge

The Magpie

Doogah Beach

Spring to Life

Cillin Na Leana

The Road That Leads to Keem

Cutting the Grass

The Seasons

Dom Allum

The Weaver

Fishing Sandeels

The Big Wash

If You Will Only Have Me

The Deserted Village

Chroniclers of Old

The Old Seadog

Loneliness

The Tatie Hokers

Kilbanes Tractor

Train Station 1961

Remembering the Bog

Ode to Catherine

Colour Plates, Scenes of Achill

Artwork Contributors

On Slievenamon

The Team

Ol’Seamus’ Car

The Author

Trial and Error

Photo Contributors

Cover photography by Sean Cannon of the Western Light Gallery, Achill www.seancannon.ie +353 9843325 Asleam Bay photograph courtesy of Gary McPartland, Gary McPartland Irish Landscape Photography www.garymcpartland.com With grateful thanks 9

The Friends We have thought of you a lot of late. And weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like to let you know. That we really did appreciate. The friendship you did show. To our daughter dear when she was well. And so full of life and fun. The exciting stories she did tell Of things you all had done. She was a people person. She made friends with young and old She saw the good in everyone That good returned ten fold. Her friends she loved sincerely She kept them in her heart We know you miss her dearly. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let your love depart.

The Window I have looked through my front window, observed the changing climes The ever changing seasons, in the ever changing times. It's wonderful view Clew Bay, so different day by day. If I could live for ever here I'd would wish no other way. Out in the Bay, there's a wave that breaks, if there's a surge at sea. It’s always there reminding me, that life’s not trouble free. I have watched the Bay in every storm, to see if I could see, Those rocks beneath the water, that’s hiding there from me. Lying just beneath the surface. Boat men keep in mind. They can steer away from danger but not the hidden kind. It’s so like the way that life is, hidden troubles, it could be said. If we only knew what lies beneath, we may know what lies ahead. We plan our perfect future, and hope that it stays lown. Just when you think life’s wonderful, it gets turned upside down. The world is full of changes, by day by month by year. Not knowing what the future holds, for some creates a fear. A fear we must not dwell on, as we may fear what's worse. What we should do, is plan our lives to suit life’s changing course. Like a sailor does on the ocean wave, use compass, wind and tide. To navigate, through constant change, and sail the oceans wide.

Adopted Time seems to have stood still for me. The months have stretched like years. The years that pass are more like hours. I now shed wrinkled tears. I still feel the day when I was told, You'd vanish from my life. Our bonding time just thirty days. Adoption was then rife. I kissed and said that I love you At least for the thousandth time. No matter what life's lost for us, Those memories are still mine. I held you close to my loving heart. Got the sweet smell of your breath. The day they dragged you from my arms, Was the start of my living death.

I could see them smile, as they accepted you , By the gate on that primrose lined path. When they closed the doors of the Baby Ford. I knew that that was that.

There's not a day since they took you away, A thousand tears I've shed. I tried to find you all my life, But faced obstacles instead. I can't believe that after 70 years, It was you that located me. I love you now, as I did then, And I hope that you'll love me. Remembering all mothers married or unmarried whose children were taken from them.

Achill Henge The hill was bare by the old railway, when first the plans were made. The materials sourced the scene was set, foundations then were laid. The turmoil that this structure caused, was a test for Arts and State. But short the time it took to build, alas, it was too late. In rain and hail and western gale the work did not take long. A rotunda structure did appear. magnificent and strong. It has no significant ancient past, with history or lore. It is no Colosseum, with blood and guts and gore. But it is a place to ponder, and how it works the mind. Your sense of being takes a rest, and peace of mind you’ll find. Its here I’ll find my inner peace, it’s where I’ll dream the dream. I hope that in my future life, things won’t be too extreme. There is a sense of magic here, whether feeling up or down. Happy or sad I close my eyes, I’m encircled by a Crown. The sun beams through the different hopes, each eve and dawn of day At night to contemplate a star, or watch the Milky Way. I know most things we do in life, are either sold or bought. But the structure here was gifted, there was no treasure sought. When they say to take it down, who's right does it infringe. The Magnificent Crown of Achill, they now call Achill Henge.

Dooagh Beach Sand disappeared from Dooagh beach with 50 years or more. Relentless movement of the sea, had nudeified the shore. Bare rugged rocks, and rounded stones. Some brown and grey and green. And some forgot, that there ever was, a beach there to be seen. One morning early in the spring, I could not believe my eyes. I looked away I looked again. And there to my surprise. The sea delivered over night, gold sand that filled the shore. The sandy beach that I remembered, fifty years before. A brand new, real old, sandy beach, my thoughts now running wild. With visions of the games we played, when I was a child. Running away from little waves that chased me on the strand Building castles, filling moats, love letters in the sand. Drawing pictures on rounded stones, of boats and crabs and fish. Gathering shells of every kind, to adorn a jar or dish. It is lovely to remember what happened in the past. But time it is a fleeting thing it goes so slowly fast. Sometimes I feel the bayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s asleep, as the little waves swell home. Sometimes awake as storms break, with surging sea and foam. The sea did take and the sea returned life, to a changing a shore. A relentless force of nature that man must not ignore.

Cillin Na Leanai / Childrens Graves On corry or hill, or lonely rill, in sand or bog or loam. Was the burial place, where there would be no trace, where souls remained unknown. In the dead of night, without a rite, men laid the souls in clay For a thousand years, the parent’s tears could not wash The Sin away. No visits made, no flowers laid, on graves they'd never seen. No crosses placed, no names were traced, as if they’d never been. No mother's breast to feed and rest, no loving kiss or praise. No bond to make, just hearts to break, that time tries to erase. No babies cry, no tearful eye. just empty cot and cradle. No name to say, no first birthday, no treatment for postnatal. In mother's grief there’s no relief, words sometimes did console. She would be told, enter the fold; get churched and save your soul. They prayed to gain, that god would claim, and grant them heavens key. When not baptised, the sin deprived, no sight of God they’d see. If mother died, it was decried, they must be separated. Where Dogma ruled, opinions fooled, the faithful exonerated. But time and tide and waters wild, will change and will corrode. The tide comes in to erode again. and expose an ancient code. Of Cillin Na leanai, and there were many. Now we’ll mark and re-inter. And from this decay, a newer way, will change the way we were.

Line 1. Verse 1 Sand or bog or loam Because the burial would have to be done quickly, hard ground would be avoided. Sand ,bog or loam was ideal. Also those graves would be located in ground that was not likely to ever be disturbed for any reason. . Line 3 Verse 1. Without a rite - It is not known if silent prayers or any prayers were said by the grave digger who was usually a distant male relative or other trusted person? Line 4. Verse 1. The Sin - Original Sin Line 4. Verse 3. Get Churched. - She would have to go to Church to be cleansed by the Priests prayers, so that she could continue to receive the sacraments, to visit the church be able to visit other homes and prepare food etc. This practice was stopped after the 2nd Vatican Council 1965 /1967 Line 2. Verse 5. Expose an ancient code. Sometimes those long forgotten graves are eroded by the elements, often bones were exposed and this could be the first indicator that this was a Cillini location. The bones are then reinterred, and the graves marked for the first time in possibly in hundreds of years.

Cutting the Grass It’s been a while since the animals grazed In the fields prepared for hay. Where the fresh green grass so luscious grows. Fenced off since early May. The Lark sores high up in the blue, And sweet the song it sings. The fluttering butterfly will land, To spread and close its wings. Wild chamomile and daisies grow, With clover pink and white. And the haunting call of the corncrake, Fulfils the summers night. There’s the gold reflecting buttercup, And the sweet forget –me-not, That adorns the herb rich meadow, Natures fragrant flower pot. The time is right to mow the sward. And tall the grass now stands. The sun evaporates the dew. The scythe in the mowers hands. Each swing is made with steady pace. The swathe to his left hand side. Back slightly stooped, knees slightly bent. Each swing a steady glide.

The snailish pace of the cutting edge, Wild life will get a chance. Lets the corncrake and the little frog, Escape the blade's advance. The honey bee with its determined buzz, Will escape from flower to flower. To raid the nectar from each bloom, And ignores the busy mower. Sometimes he disturbs a honey bees nest, Finds honeycombs pure and wild. The harvested store of the busy bee, Soon devoured by a child. He hones the blade with the edging stone Wipes the blade with a fist of grass. Swish, and swish, the sound that's made By the scythe sheering through the grass. The busy mower stands up straight. The scythe he rests for now. He takes a breath of the perfumed air, Lifts his cap and wipes his brow. He views with pride the work heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s done. Loves the scent of the new mown hay. He scans the sky for the twittering lark. Thanks God for the lovely day. .

Dom Allum You can sing all you like about workin’ and fishin.’ The beauty of Achill or whatever it be. But this story I tell has a different dimension. For it’s of the Lone Boat-Man and his craft Q.E.3. The evening was dark and the high seas were breaking, The forecast said 9 from the south generally. When a flare from the sea set a process in motion, What size was this boat and who could it be. No time was lost in calling the Garda, The Sub –Aqua and Ambulance were quick on the scene. Such a gathering of people that gathered in minutes, You wouldn’t believe it unless you had seen. The tension built up as the boat came in nearer, The danger was greater than ever before. Everyone knew that the storm was “ the big thing “ She could smash on the rocks and be never no more. Well, the boat hit a rock and she quickly turned over, “ The next one will swamp her “ I heard someone say. Dom Allum pulled hard on the oars and he bowed her, She came in on a wave to Dooagh’s lovely bay.

Well the next thing we knew, he was flung in the water, In seconds, Tom Corrigan is out by his side. Charlie and Chris were soon there to assist him. To escort this great oarsman from out of the tide. Tom Corrigan and Joe tied a rope bow to stern. The tide it was rough and the night it was dark. There were scores of men there to make damn sure and certain, This boat would be brought above high water mark. Well you won’t believe this for it sounds like a lie, The boat was hauled up to “The Pub “ high and dry. The celebrations went on for nights and for days, One continuous party we will remember always. So three cheers to the men who brought him ashore. My hat and my glass to Dom Allum once more. The first man to row the Atlantic both ways, The world will forever be singing his praise.

Fishing Sandeels Would ye like to fish for sandeels Ned asked as we did play, It’s a perfect night for fishing eels, The moon’s as bright as day. With the sun the moon the earth in line, A spring tide there will be. It’s a tradition here at Easter time, Get your hooks and follow me. Fishing sandeels in the moonlight. With Ned and his three sons. A low tide a bright night. Reaping hooks and wellingtons. . A Gallon can, to hold the eel Blunt reaping hook in hand. To catch the greater sandeel, That burrows in the sand. How do you catch the sandeels, Ned. Do they put up a fight? Say’s he,” you grab them near the head. And hold them good and tight.”

Now listen lads you must take heed, Or they'll slip out of your hand. They'll squirm away at high speed. And disappear into the sand. Now sink your hooks at the waters side, The sand is softer there. Just score the sand with stealth astride. Be ready to lift and snare. With a silver belly and a green blue back We caught them with delight. It was simple really once we got the knack. On that lovely, full moon, Lenten night.

If You Will Only Have Me I’d walk from here to the Golden Gate. I’d swim the Atlantic for a date. With you my darling Maggie Kate,

If you will only have me.

I’d carry a calf to Timbuktu, I'd bring you a monkey from Kathmandu. Even If I had the flu,

If you will only have me.

I’d chop a forest into logs. I’d make a thousand pair of clogs. For every animal on The Isle of Dogs,

If you will only have me

I’d build a house with an acoustic room. It would have to be in Mullingar or Croom. Where I’d sing to you morning, night and noon.

If you will only have me.

I’d climb the Eiffel Tower tall. With a parachute in case I'd fall I’d skate across Niagara Fall.

If you will only have me

I’d build a castle in Dublin bay. With a hundred rooms for the kids to play. Our hundred children by the way,

If you will only have me.

I’d phone you forty times a night. On What’s app, Face book and on Skype. I’d twitter and tweet ‘till morning light,

If you will only have me.

I’d post a U tube video for the world to see. Of me proposing, swinging from a tree. When it goes viral, infected you will be,

And then we’ll have to marry.

Says Maggie Kate " you are stark raving mad." You’re even crazier than my Dad. A hundred children, aren’t you the lad, Well there’s no way you can have me. Moving Catalonia out of Spain. Floating it across the Atlantic main. Indicates to me you're quite insane,

And that’s why you can’t have me.

Tattooing pigs in Malibu. Or chasing Monkeys in Kathmandu. You're the craziest buck I ever knew,

And that’s why you can’t have me

Making Irelands eye go blind. Building castles in your mind. Every daft thing you can find,

Your kind I won’t marry.

Now just to let you know the score. I’m sure that you're a lying bore. And don’t you call me any more,

Your kind I won’t marry. No. Your kind won’t marry.

The Chroniclers of Old Chroniclers of old, hermitage dwellers. Dwellers working with quills and dyes, sketching drawing, writing. Writing poetry, recording history, between the prayers. Prayers offered , knees on stone, voluntary self imposed punishment Punishment in lieu of almsgiving , penitence ongoing. Ongoing writing by melted wax and trimmed wick light. Light and heavy Celtic letters, forming images. Images tediously sketched and drawn by itinerant Bards, Abbots and Monks. Monks, Abbots all living ascetic lives in isolated places. Places secluded ,mountain caves, bee hive cells, remote island areas. Areas as populated as the desert was in the forty days and forty nights meditation. Meditation by dedicated religious, seeking out God and observing true nature. Nature at its meekest, mildest, wildest in the hardest of times. Times characterised by austere, severe, sincere, self disciplined, penitent God Searchers. Searchers of truths, recorders of history, of myths, copiers of older writings. Writings by older scribes, rewritten, copied, maybe changed, originals destroyed or lost. Lost or destroyed, possibly to conceal proof of exact information transfer to the Annals. Annals beautifully written, true or false by the old chroniclers.

Loneliness Loneliness is a feeling I find hard to describe, It’s like my body has jailed my feelings inside. Trapped in my body and cannot get free. Yes, I am the jailer and I’ve mislaid the key. Loneliness is subjective based on unknown ends. It can be triggered by a loss or not having friends. From the day we were born we’ve a need to be loved. We can be lonely in company if we feel unloved. The loss of a love or even where we reside. Can bring loneliness on we must try not to hide. Lonely and young or lonely and old. Its friendship, and love that keeps it controlled. Solitude, for some people, lies vacant of charms. Others are blest, there are no alarms. Reveal your dark place. Inform someone. Few flowers can thrive when there out of the sun.

Kilblane’s Tractor Kilbane left tor Croughan with Faidan and McHugh. Callaghan his partner and Tony Gielty too. They crossed the old black mountain and the tractor lost control. Down to the old grey valley it took that crooked stroll. Kilbane left the tractor just with that second tick. Now the fog on the old Black mountain it was mighty mighty thick. The Tractor left the mountain road and it took to the rocks below. To see it there that day boys it was a holy show. Kilbane said to all the boys, “We’ll go up for the fun, We’ll go up to the Big House , we’ll go up the tractors gone.” Kilbane lost his tractor and Gielty lost his shirt. Callaghan helped Mick Fadian to climb out of the dirt. McHugh he was a lucky chap, he wasn’t hurt at all. But to go another ten feet, he would be down the fall. One thousand feet of sheer drop that ocean mountain steep. Kilbane and his brave partners just missed that mighty leap. Now come on, tell me Mister and isn’t it a shame. To try and pin the brave Kilbane it wasn’t him to blame! Kilbane said to all the boys “We’ll go up for the fun. We’ll go up to the Big House; we’ll go up the tractors gone:

Now what use is a trailer, way up in Corrymore. Especially when the tractor is crippled by the shore. The farmers they’ve gone crazy, and everything’s gone wrong. There was lots of things for doing, and nothing getting done. Now cheer up all you farmers what I tell you is no lie. Kilbane pulled up the tractor on the 19th of July. He took it o’er to Mulligan, for him to overhaul. Now it’s going on the roar as if it never had a fall. Kilbane said to all the boys. “We’ll go up for the fun. We’ll go up to the Big House; we’ll go up to show it run.

Remembering the Bog Bringing tea to Dad was a very enjoyable task after school. "Throw yer bag there, eat up, ya can do yer homework later. Hurry now; bring this bottle of tea to yer father before it goes cold Wait now, until I put a sock on the bottle. No, I’ll put two that should keep it warm. Holy Mother of God, I nearly forgot to give ye the sandwiches". Lots of distractions on the way. Lots of stones to kick on the yellow gravel topped road. Lots of stones to throw at the Myko’s bog, making circles and straight line patterns. Getting the stones to form your initial was a hard one, almost did it once. Lots of time, shur, there's two socks on the whiskey bottle, the tea won’t go cold that quick. Knee deep in the FIddaun Bawn River, lifting stones, trying to catch a lurking eel. Grabbing the slippery eel. Nearly let the bloody bottle fall. Realised I had better bring the tea to me father before something serious happens. I now know what he meant when he said: "Thanks son, you were so quick, you hardly gave the kettle time to boil". After the tea, wasn’t there two threepenny Cadbury chocolate bars packed away with the sandwiches. If I knew there was chocolate, I would have been even quicker. After the tea, watching the sods fly out conveyer belt style. One after the other, one in the air one on the slain, A constant bombardment of black missiles flying out. Each sod landing alongside each other, slightly slopping, in neat lines. Blackening out the bog, sod after sod, after sod. Like slating a roof I thought. As me father use’t say: Confucius says: " Man who cuts turf warms himself twice ". But, Hey. Confucius didn’t know much about saving the turf and what work comes next.

On Slievnamon Please take my hand and walk with me, By the dewy rose and the blossomed tree. By Kickhamâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Seat on storied hill, Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Old Kilcash, I love it still. On Slievenamon your view exceeds, For there you have no worldly needs. Warmed by hearts that love and dream. Cooled by crystal mountain streams. Since Finn McCool this storied hill, Is steeped in history good and ill. A bare foot child on an earthen floor. A Redcoat standing at the door. But times like these are long gone past, And history told will always last. Like wishful things in childhood days. Like dreams of love as sweethearts gaze. So take my hand and walk with me, By the dewy rose and the blossomed tree. By silvered streams and forest hill. On Slievenamon where time stands still.

Olâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Seamusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Car I'll tell you the story of Ol' Seamus' car. It caused a sensation both near and far, The first time we saw it, there was such a scene, All the neighbours went fighting o'er what they had seen. It's a van it's a car it's green no it's blue, It's a two door , it's a four door, I'm telling you. Well they argued and battled 'till the truth it was known. It turned out that the car had a mind of it's own. It hit everything that ran on four wheels, It crashed into lamp-posts and gateposts and fields. It was accident- prone and I swear to this day, That it did it's own thing and it went it's own way. Ol' Seamus went down to Keel Beach for a spin. And he sat there watching the tide coming in. Says he to himself, I'll get out of here quick, But the car stuck in neutral, a dirty old trick. He pulled it, he pushed it but it was no use, The car just back fired and issued abuse. "You blighter," says Seamus " you'll drive me insane, The first chance that I get you'll log a new name." Well Seamus got rid of this terrible car, He drove miles to a garage outside Castlebar. But as far as he went, he should have gone more. Didn't I buy the car and it landed next door!

The first evening I got it, I drove down a lane, And as quick as a flash we were stuck in a drain, We hailed down a big van and by rope we were towed, But somehow the car put the van off the road. One day I decided a test I'd rehearse, I put the car into first, it went mad in reverse. Crashed into a squad car and pulled off it's door, Bounced back off a wall and rammed it once more. Well the screeching of brakes is still in my ear, The Instructor went roarin' "Let Me Out Of Here !" An emergency stop I then had to make, I put my foot on the accelerator instead of the brake. Well talk about havoc the car caused that day, The whole town was jammed up with wrecked cars in the way, The Instructor said, "That's done it, I'll pack this job in; I don't need this hassle, Oh! never again," Well here comes the end of this terrible crock, It's now part of a fence and supported by rock. I see it an odd time movin' and swayin' , And I'd swear that's it's tryin' to fall into the drain. So spare a thought for this car as you pass by the drains, For the water in them was like oil in it's veins. Wherever it came from, I'm sure it was sent. But whatever the reason, as cars go ... it went.

Trial and Error If there is something that you'd like to do, Keep trying and trying and try something new. If you keep this in mind you'll eventually win. The error will be, if you give in. From a hewn out log to a huge ocean liner. It is by trying and trials ships get bigger and finer. They kept trying and trying since the time of cave men. The error would be if they ever gave in. From two tins and a string, to the smart cell phone. It was by trying and trials they made real the unknown. They kept trying and trying since the vibrating tin. The error would be, if they ever gave in. From a twelve second flight, to a huge jumbo jet, The more trying and trials the better they'll get. The Wright Brothers kept trying to eventually win. The error would be, if they ever gave in. So if there is something that you'd like to do, Keep trying and trying and try something new. If you keep this in mind, you'll eventually win. The error will be, if you give in.

She Means Business If you see a woman walking fast, a handbag on her arm. It may look like she means business, but does not create alarm. But if you see her running, she has something on her mind. You will know that she means business. it's prudent to be kind. If you see a woman standing, her hands upon on her hips, Her elbows pointing forward and she’s tightening her lips. If her teeth she's grinding hard, with her mouth stretched to one side. She definitely means business, you’d better run and hide. If you see her arms are folded, and standing by the door, You’ll know that she means business, if she’s stamping on the floor. I’m sure that this encounter, would not be what you’d like, Rather than confront her, I’d get on my bike. If you see a woman loitering, with her skirt up at her thigh. If she’s pouting ruby lips, and she is giving the glad eye. Lying up against a lamp post, with a rose decked in her hair. My mate says "she means business you'd be wise to not go there." If your woman is the kind that keeps the family home. Or maybe she's the working kind and never has a moan. She may ask you for a favour without giving any warning. And if its business that she means, I may tell you in the morning.

Sleet and Snow The evening's calm, the sky is grey. Odd flakes of snow are falling. No breeze to blow the flakes away. Not thawing after landing. Heavier sleet comes falling down, Flakes fluffy soft and white. Zigzagging, fluttering, gliding, strown. Clothing everything in white. There is a calm in falling sleet. A softening of the heart. The only sound snow crunched by feet. The scene is natural art. The hills and vales embrace the snow. Trees in their wedding mantle. A patterned train, white hedges show. Snow has a diamond sparkle. The Ice and frost invited guests. The falling sleet confetti. The trees show off their showy crests. And the sun says " don't forget-me."

In my hand I hold the soft cold sleet It melts quicker than on land. This relationship is short and sweet. Better that than dammed. The thaw sets in and gathering pace. It dissolves the veil of white. Reforming winters cold embrace. Preparing springs delight. Delicate cool and brilliant white. Silent and pleasant now. A startled bird flies off in fright. When snow falls from a bough.

Is There Anyone Here I Can Trust Is there anyone here I can trust. Does anyone here keep their word. Is the truth really a must? Been told stories, by a little, bird? Has the little bird got a big mouth? Does the little bird add a bit? Or like a parrot repeat the truth, And couldn’t care less who will hear it.. Do you think that you’ll ever regret, That you, didn’t keep, your word. Having promised to keep the secret. Then whispering tell half the world. Aren’t secrets supposed to be kept? When not cause distress and dismay. Have you stayed awake and not slept. Do you still think that this is okay? Have you promised to keep a friends secret. But tell on your friend when their gone. And embellish a little juicy bit. Don't you think that this is wrong? When you meet face to face with your friends And you don't have to turn away. Then you won't have to make amends And friends for ever you'll stay.

Ancient Achill Tombs Winds whistle through Megalithic tombs and circled stones Creating traditional notes of Gaelic soul Exciting the inner self . I imagine a type of music alien to present ears The ancient altar emanating sounds existing since the first foot tapped, to the heart felt strains . Lost to the distant past, but now, Echoing, delivering , imploding, Haunting sound waves, into my brain and heart, Breath stopping, chest heaving like when in love. Wishing to remember the sweet strange tones which Returned to rock storage on opening my eyes. Opening my eyes , Seeing unchanged landscape save for Changes made by gowlgobs and other handmade tools which Created essential permanent scars for life by Culturing the hills and vales, which dip and sweep the Ancient earthy values lakeward. Which is then captivated by the stone age past.

Stolen Taken silently, no notification, no goodbyes. Stolen by masters of evil to order. Selected by features, age size,and gender. Skin colour, hair colour, and colour of eyes. Stolen to replace a child Trapped, bought, sold and swapped. Dragged, drugged, debased and delivered. To the slave trade, exploited, defiled. Orphans though the parents live. Their cries for parents help denied. Abductors not caring if they lived or died. How could a little child survive. How do the parents minds survive. I can't imagine how they cope, Their loss is great, they need to hope. That their child, is well, and still alive. Lying awake in their bed at night. Calling as loud as they can in their mind. Hoping their child will answer in kind. And the horror starts over with each morning light.

How are they now . Have they changed. have they grown, Telling stories 'till slumber, tip toe out of sight. There is a great need to whisper goodnight. But their child's location's unknown. There's a horrible sickening feeling I get. For what, those parents go through every day. At least where my child Rests I Pray. But they are still searching yet. The search will go on to the very last one. With police help they'll leave no stone, unturned. Unsolved cases for kidnap must not be adjourned. Justice must be seen to be working and done.

The Magpie The cheeky magpie is a remarkable bird, That most people love to hate. Except for Claude Monet's magpie, Surveying from a gate. There's sorrow for me if I see only one, There is joy if I see two. While Henry The 8th. would like to see four, Royally that's nothing new. This bird would build a nest in your ear, Then hatch a deceitful plan. Sneakily come and rob it again. As practiced by devious man. An intelligent double crossing bird, An aggressive quarrelling thief. Dressed to kill in black and white. Resourceful beyond belief. A congregation of tuxedoed rogues. All dressed for their Autumn Ball. They look like Georgian gentlemen . But they are not genteel at all.

They've a cheeky swagger as they walk, They lack a top hat and spats They are rough and noisy cunning low life. They are not true aristocrats. The least little noise and they take flight. A reprieve for the little birds Whose life, and nests, under constant threats They are killers in other words

Spring to Life In winters chill the green looks dull. There's a lack of fusing colour. The brooks fill up with liquid life, Preparing Spring for Summer. We wait for natures better times, When the sun will overtake. And activate the dormant life, Floral beauties to awake. When the grey is pushed aside by blue, The dawn chorus fills the air. With shorter shadows seen at noon, And the trees no longer bare. Where the leaves are hiding twiggy homes, Brim full of little heart beats. Cocooned in domes that breakaway, Replaced by screeching chick tweets. What lifts the heart at this time of year Is the determined growth of flora. A burst of colour fills the eye True nature helps the Fauna.

The Road That Leads to Keem Oh! Take me back to Achill Isle before I pass away. My eyes are not so good no more, my hair has long turned grey. I want to see the old home and the folks that live therein. I want to walk, and stop and talk, on the road that leads to Keem. There’s my good friend Johnny Fadian a cobbler skilled was he. Tick tack he’d go upon his last, or a tune he’d play to me. A man of wit and wisdom, no lip you’d give to him. In case he’d say “be on your way “on the road that leads to Keem. In Keel there was the blacksmiths forge and Tom the Smith I knew. He’d bash the anvil 3 times o’er and then he’d hit the shoe. As he puffed and blew the bellows the sparks would fly ‘round him. Then he’d shoe your ass, and you could pass, on the road that leads to Keem. I remember Mary Miley of the Taken Class was she, “Ahoy, and listen my dear friend”, she’d whisper gently. But when she spoke of the haunted vale, she sent shivers through all men. And then they’d know, it was time to go, on the road that leads to Keem. On a horse with cleeves, the salesman sat, his name was Frank Mc Hugh. Butter, mutton and polish, he would shout to you. If you were slow to make a purchase, he’d say with a smiling grin. Do I make a sale, or take my tail, on the road that leads to Keem . Oh! Take me back to Achill Isle before I pass away. My eyes are not so good no more, my hair has long turned grey. I want to see the old home and the folks that live therein. I want to walk, and stop and talk, on the road that leads to Keem. * Cleeves,

An Achill Island name for creels .

The Seasons

by Catherine Ann Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Donnell age 9

Spring is the season for growing things. Flowers grow and the birds will sing. Lambs are born and grass grows green. Spring is a lovely season. Summer is the season that I like best. We get our holidays and have a nice rest. We go to the beach and have some fun. Lots of running and plenty of sun. Autumn is the season, when the leaves turn brown. The wind blows and the leaves come down. The days get colder and the nights get long. But the little birds still sing their song. Winter is a season that is very nice. Snow falls and thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lots of ice. But the best thing about winter is Christmas Time. When Santa comes and the bells will chime. N.B. Catherine was nine years old, and in national school when she wrote this poem

The Weaver Sitting high at his Loom, in the weaving room, With art in his mind and eyes. And the clickety clack of the Weaving Rack, Like a pianist in disguise . The Warps will lift as the Treadles shift. His feet to the rhythm dancing. The Shuttle slide, with the Weft inside, Through the Shed his eye is glancing. With pride and skill he threads the Quill, With colours so divine. Designed to thrill, In Plain or Twill, The woven threads entwine. Through the Shed the Weft Pick right to left, With rhythmic Click and clacking. A pull on the Comb to Batten home, The pattern is emerging. And to this day , though passed away, I hear sounds from the Weaverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s room. The clickety clack of the Shuttles and Rack, Of the Weaverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s old Hand Loom.

The Big Wash Grandmother's house now empty for several years. Doors locked, green paint peeling flaking revealing other colours. Wood sash windows rotting, glass slipping, putty falling off, cobwebs inside, but I could still see a picture of the sacred heart hanging over the mantle piece, wooden crucifix under. Around the side of the house where we played hide and seek and where Grandmother did the Big Wash. There was a circle of stones which were used to contain the fire, and placed to support a galvanised bath in which the water was boiled for the Big Wash. It was my job to fetch the water from a new nearby concrete tank which collected rain water, before the tank, it was a big metal barrel. Granny would light the fire when I had the bath half full. While waiting for the water to heat. Beds would be stripped, sheets and blankets brought out to another huge tub where the actual washing took place. Saucepans with long handles were used to transfer hot water from the bath to the tub. Big bars of Sunlight Soap or Carbolic Soap were used, those soaps were great for bubbles. In with some blankets and sheets, and in with me too in me bare feet. It was mighty fun dancing , tramping down the sheets that res up like big balloons. Granny showed me how to turn the bed clothes over with the handle of the brush. Granny left to go and ready the dinner for granda, while I looked after the washing. I couldn't manage to stir the clothes , the wet blankets were too heavy causing the brush handle to bend and the clothes would slip off. I had a brainwave, Granda's walking stick was like a hook, it would do the job no problem. Well it did the job brilliantly, sure I was flyin' it. Dancing and turning clothes over an over, time, after time, mighty fun altogether.

Until the clothes started to slip off the walking stick , hadn't the stick straightened out. I ran to granny shouting for help, I was terrified Granda would be furious. Granny came running out shouting "are you burned , are you burned" No! I said , but the walking stick is straight. Jesus , Mary and Joseph he'll kill us , he'll eat us alive. Granny had the dinner on and I told her not to tell him about the walking stick until after he had eaten his dinner, he would be full then, and mightn't want to eat us . Well Granny had a brilliant brainwave, she would put a new curve on the stick. She heated it up, bent it 'round, stuck it in the bucket of cold water , my heart was thumping. Well it had a lovely curve, I wasn't sure if Granda' would find out, My heart still thumping. Granny put the stick back inside the house, she then called Granda' and me in for our dinner. I gave Granda' some of my dinner as he kept saying that he was starving. I said I wasn't hungry but I really wanted to make sure that he was really full after his dinner. After dinner he said where's my walking stick Granny said its in here and brought it out to him. "That's not my stick" he said , My heart went jumping. "This is not my stick the curve is different" Granny said " Open your eyes and take a good look at it." Well he recognised the brass nail he had driven up into the bottom of the stick to stop it from wearing away, Granny told him that brass has magical powers. He said " Well, that was the best idea I ever had to drive that Brass nail , it must have caused the curve to suit my hand much better than it did before and now I won't need to buy a new walking stick after all." Granny said " you're a wise man, you can now keep the brass in yer pocket as well as in you're stick. When he was gone, I said to Granny "he might find out yet". She said " he won't , That fellow would believe anything when his belly is full" Saved I thought by Granny and the magical brass nail.

The Deserted Village (Slievemore) I walked around Slievemore to day. And what I saw it caused dismay. Ruined stone houses dot the way. Homes of crofters gentle stay. Constructed in a similar way. Achill stonework I would say. All nestled in a neat array. The houses now in sad decay. The thatch and beams, long blown away. Roofless mantrachs, in full display. I stoop low, to enter the doorway. Wall heights lower, due to rising clay. I'm sad to think they had to live this way. Where Landlords found the crofters easy prey. The Irish Poor Law Act ensured that they would pay. But I guess in those hard times they had no say. Some children had to work and some could play. To baby sit, not let the animals stray. There were lazy beds and crops of grain and hay. Saved by family or by Meitheal, their communal way.

II thought about the folk that tried to stay. And why it was those people went away. I am sure it wasn’t for a holiday. I hope it wasn’t painful I do pray. If they thought that they’d return again someday. All hopes would disappear when old and grey. Many generations, have now passed away. Their offspring sprinkled far to Botany Bay.

The Old Sea Dog Do you remember the old Sea Dog called Routy, His Kingdom the Pier at Cloughmore, He fished most life for his bounty, He was known on many a shore. His home was open to any, You could go there by day or by night, Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be greeted by Routy and Maggie, With smiles of truehearted delight. Relighting his pipe by the fire, Great yarns he would tell of the sea, Of mountainous waves that grew higher, And of rescues performed out at sea. He would test your knowledge of seafare. Like who caught the last shark in Keem ? And who discovered the Chimlear?* There were no echo sounders back then! Down on the pier heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be is busy, Mending nets and tidying up, His energy did always amaze me, The old man just never let up.

The last boat has just left the harbour. And steady she goes through the Bar. And you feel that his eyes are upon her, And wishing her luck from afar. The evening is steadily dimming. And the moonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shinning bright on Clew Bay, The red and green lights are now blending. In a shimmering, glimmering bay. My mind it will savour this moment, No future, just present, no past. Lost in the beautiful present. To retain a vision to last. The shadows of night are now falling. I look out oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;er the watery way. A sadness comes over me stealing. A cool breeze sweeps in from Clew Bay. * Chimlear -- A deep sandy sea bed discovered round 1901 Remembering Paddy and Maggie Kilbane ( Routy ) Chloughmore.

The tatie hokers The crops are now ripe on the west coast of Scotland, The farmers are waiting in Girvan and Ayr. They're gathering the squads on the west coast of Ireland, On a steam train from Achill there's a subsidised fare. The Ailsa Craig and the Clyde and the Broomielaw waters, Lonely your last look as westwards you gaze. Then the horn of the hooker declares your arrival, You're piled into lorries and driven away. So farewell to my friends tomorrow I'm leaving. God bless you my loved ones we may ne'er meet no more. I'll be crossing the stormy dark waters tomorrow , And I'm lonely tonight by my loved island shore. There they take out their cattle and you' re put in their barn, You fill your own tick, that's your bed made of hay. The gaffer will whistle at dark in the morning, And you're ready for work before break of day. It's hard on the greesheens.* it's hard on the children, Who are hoking and picking as fast as they can. It's hard on young women some men and the elders, But they could do nothing, they're a part of the plan. So farewell to my friends, tomorrow I'm leaving. God bless you my loved ones, we may ne'er meet no more. I'll be working the land of another man's country, I wish it was my land, on my own native shore.

A bothy caught fire up in Kirkintilloch, Fire swept as men slept they were burned to the ground. Can you tell if their cries will re-echo forever? Can you tell what went on in the minds that were around? The First Train to Achill it carried dead cargo, A prophecy said that the last one would too. There's many a man who'll remember forever, The anguish and tears of those people they knew. 'Twas because we were poor we picked the potatoes, Because we were Irish we lived in their barns. But Michael McHugh and Peadar O'Donnell, Brought a change to the Bothies, a new era was born. So farewell to my friends tomorrow I'm leaving, God bless you my loved ones, we may ne'er meet no more. I'll be crossing the stormy dark water tomorrow, And I'm lonely tonight by my loved island shore. *Greesheens - the name given to first time workers in any line of work. Children as young as 7 years were often employed at the taties. The Scottish Parliament enacted a law that allowed schools to close, so that the Children and the Parents could work on the farms. This law stayed in existence until it was repealed in 1964

Train Station 1961 Standing at the station waiting for the train. Not a nice morning , sharp wind , platform shaded, a little rain. No place to sit except on the suitcase to avoid the bustling. Case strapped by a leather belt which kept it from bursting. Some people looked sad, others looked happy. There may be some level of pretence about how happy . But there would be satisfaction for some, Knowing that they would be sending money home. Some faces I knew well, some I did not. Looking down at the rails I'm thinking a lot, Thinking of the thousands of people that were transported on those same tracks, Mostly out of necessity to many parts of the world, some would never come back. They would leave families grieving I'm not sure how I felt, between the excitement of the going, and the sadness of the leaving. If I didn't have to go, I would have stayed, I said that the last time and here I am again. One could say that It was a bit like looking for the donkey to do some work and praying to God you wouldn't find him. Wishing good luck. Saying good bye. Hugs and kisses, I'm going to cry I'll see you again, But I don't know when. To where are you headin,' This journey I'm dreadin'. Were you over before, Shur you know the score. All quick conversations, acknowledgements, before the train pulls in. To divide and deliver passengers to wherever life takes them.

The steam whistle blows one and a half times as the train approaches. I could see the trail of puffed up black smoke disappearing over the rear coaches. White steam hissing from between the wheels engulfing everyone on the platform in a fog, That had a smell and taste of warm metal reminiscent of smog. Doors swing out , Rush on, push in , case in the rack. Coat and paper, claiming the seat for when I get back. The whistle blows , doors slamming shut as the train moves off slowly. Lowering the window by its leather strap and feeling lonely. Leaning out the window , a tear in the eye. Blowing kisses , waving the final good bye. And I am asking myself, what will the changes be if and when I come back. Back in the seat, listening to the peculiar sounds of the wheels on the track. Which seem to say . Your goin' - away. Your goin' - away. Forget about home, Forget about home, Just say- good bye, Good bye - good bye, Good bye - good bye, Good bye - good bye

Ode to Catherine Would light up your life. She could handle the strife. Would bring out your best. And not make it a test. Would make you feel good. Would help if she could. Would always be gentle. Would not be judgemental. Would use a kid glove. Would always show love. Would never be late. Would always accommodate. Would make both ends meet. Would be very discreet. Would empathise. Would sympathise. Would walk in the rain. Would never complain. Would be sad for you. Would be glad for you. Would be the source of good fun. Where you're number one. If you were alone. Would make sure you got home.. Would give and give.

Would have done anything to live.

Artwork Contributors Poem Trial and Error Deserted Village

Artist Dr. Marjorie Wallace Mary Lavelle Burke

The Big Wash Stolen Spring to Life She Means Business Cutting the Grass Ancient Achill Tombs

Kay Dooley Deirdre Cafferkey Dr. Camille Souter Nora Cafferkey Mary Corrigan Joe Daly

Achill Henge

Ronan Halpin

Adopted

Amanda Halpin

Children’s Graves Dr Lucy O’Donnell The Chronicles of Old The Friends Ode to Catherine The Seasons The Window The Road That Leads to Keem Sleet and Snow The Magpie Ol’ Seamus’ Car Kilbanes Tractor The Old Sea Dog Don Allum Is There Anyone Here I Can Trust? Loneliness Dooagh Beach

Daisy O’Donnell Age 5

Train Station 1961

Charlene Clempson

Remembering the Bog The Weaver

Jessica Smith

Address Slievmore, Achill, Co Mayo Achill, Co Mayo. Email; lavellemaryburke@gmail.com Galway and Achill, Co Mayo Pollagh, Achill, Co Mayo Dooagh, Achill, Co Mayo Dooagh, Achill, Co Mayo Pollagh, Achill, Co Mayo The Danlann Yawl Art Gallery Mulranny, Achill, Co Mayo Ronan Halpin. Sculpture. Ronan Halpin Gallery, Newtown, Keel, Achill, Co Mayo Email: info@ronanhalpin.com Ronan Halpin. Sculpture. Ronan Halpin Gallery, Newtown, Keel, Achill, Co Mayo Email: info@ronanhalpin.com https://www.yorksj.ac.uk/schools/art-designcomputer-science/staff-profiles/art/dr-lucyodonnell/dr-lucy-odonnell.html

Laura Matthews

lecurleysheen@outlook.com

Kate Black

https://www.yorksj.ac.uk/schools/art-designcomputer-science/staff-profiles/art/kateblack/kate-black.html https://www.andyblackart.com

Andy Black Sally Taylor

Associate Professor Vanessa Corby

Eva Priestley

https://www.yorksj.ac.uk/schools/art-designcomputer-science/staff-profiles/art/sallytaylor/ https://www.yorksj.ac.uk/schools/art-designcomputer-science/staff-profiles/art/drvanessa-corby/dr-vanessa-corby.html https://www.yorksj.ac.uk/schools/art-designcomputer-science/staffprofiles/art/charlene-clempson/ jessicaalicesmith.wixsite.com/jessicaaliceart https://evapriestley1808.wixsite.com/evaprie stley

The Team

Tom Lavelle (Fulton)

James O’Malley (Malia),

George English, Pat McHugh,

Tom O’Donnell, Eddie McNamara (Mack)

The Author

Michael Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Donnell Michael O'Donnell, is married to Anne, they have two sons Colm and Neil and a daughter Catherine who died of triple negative cancer in 2017. A daughter in law Lucy married to Colm and their daughter Daisy Mae.