The Words Zine issue 1

The Words Zine MURDER

BILLY BONES

GENTLEMEN

MONGREL

THE FOX

SHOTGUN

THE SPHINX

RIBBONS

STRONG SHOES

THE FAT MAN

LIGHTNING

MAGIC STARS

CROKE PARK

EARLY BIRD

FOOTPRINTS

SILVER MOON

AMSTERDAM

MARBLE BLOCKS

VIAGRA

CHOCOLATE

ISSUE 1 € 2 by the WORDS Writers Group performing @ The Art Hand

Dearest Readers, Thanks for picking up a copy of the first issue of The Words Zine. This is a publication of the WORDS Writers Group performing @ The Art Hand. We have put a variety of poetry and prose together including a ballad written in 1907 about the Carriganure Fox! Matilda holds our mascot on the front cover, the brass key that unlocks our creative minds!

The WORDS Writers Group performing @ The Art Hand is an ever expanding group of performers who meet on the first Wednesday of every month to read their own and other peoples work. These events are proving to be very popular with people travelling from far and wide to perform and listen to an array of interesting literature from the traditional to the alternative. The nights are most intriguing when philosophical conversation erupts from people’s performances. All are welcome! For more details check out our web-page at www.TheArtHand.com/words or ring The Art Hand on 051 292919.

I’m delighted to say that we’ve had a great response to our call for submissions to this publication and that the work submitted is of such high standard. The deadline for submissions to The Words Zine is the 20th of each month. Please email them to roisin_ph@hotmail.com Thank you all and enjoy the read!

Róisín Power Hackett, Editor of The Words Zine

WRITER

PAGE

Jean Tubridy

2

Cheryl Beer

3

Tom Power

5

Judith Flynn

7

Willie Murray

8

Enya Eccleston

9

Belle Walsh

10

Speedy Kaynine

11

Róisín Power Hackett

13

Clare Scott

14

Produced @ The Art Hand Editor: Róisín Power Hackett Layout: Sean Corcoran Distributor: Tom Power Page 1

Secret Passages by Jean Tubridy We were well prepared; bar of plain Cadbury’s chocolate each, torch, penknife, strong shoes.

This was a planned adventure along the rocks under the collapsing cliffs of the Copper Coast Kilfarrassy to Garrarus In search of secret passages, smugglers coves and hidden caves.

Disappear from the world, just you and me for an hour or so.

Mother and son time; ‘Don’t tell Dad. You know the way he feels about the sea.’

Tide at lowest point, hillocks rising out of the depths baring high water marks and sharp jaws; We slip round ‘our’ rock in Kilfarrassy and crawl along the seaweed desert; ankles bending into newly filled rock pools.

Mrs Robinson and Man Friday, hackles high, eyes hovering over the horizon, we follow odd footprints along a pebbled cove to a black tunnel burrowed into the towering cliff.

Torch shining, we watch them disappear into a rotting carpet of yellow oilskin.

‘C’mon Mum, let’s get out of here.’

Pebbles turn to rocks, breathing to breathless; Nowhere to go but into the wild waves, heaving us out, shunting us in.

Sodden clothes weighing us down, gritty water flooding our sturdy shoes.

Two archways reveal Garrarus beach; so this is how they appear from the other side.

What must we look like to this hobbling man throwing a ball for his bandy legged terrier?

‘Did you see old Billy Bones?’ he mouths.

‘Not exactly, but we saw where he lives.’

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Nine Coloured Ribbons

by Cheryl Beer 9 coloured ribbons Grace the branches of the trees Stood frozen by cold time itself Yet moving with the breeze Still mist rolls from the meadows To greet old crows who softly weep Remembering your beauty The impression slowly seeps into forgotten memories, Women painting with no name Crows dance around Your prayer tree Rhythmic melancholy shame

9 coloured ribbons Lacing branches through the trees Silhouette across the skyline Crows cry or softly weep Rolling mist across the meadow Caressing canvas, incomplete For 9 coloured ribbons Lost, gently as they sleep I will climb upon the shoulders Of hillside giants, stretching high Tie Celtic knots around the leaves Beneath grief painted sky Or kiss the prayers, the memories Of sketches hung to dry

And just as Edith came to rest Beside the Irish Sea Your silence ties my heart in knots You are now part of me

Where bricks and mortar tumble Children bare-backed Hungry, played Whilst 9 forgotten ribbons Painted memories left to fade....

Fade....away Where are you now, my lovelies?

I dance the shadow of your wake To memorise, through sun kissed eyes Unspoken lost landscape Hidden now Beneath her broken wing The kiwi, where she lay Feathered brushes Ocean storm-torn Forbidden pallet Locked away

Yes, I will sing and tell the world That you were one of ten And where you went Or who you’ve been Will ne’er be known again So ‘til we meet Know this one truth For you and I are friends That 9 coloured ribbons Will walk The Copper Coast again And hidden in these Irish hills Now, just as back then We remember Coloured ribbons...

For 9 plus 1, make 10

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About Nine Coloured Ribbons

by Cheryl Beer During my Coracle funded trip to Ireland, as Creative Director Cheryl Beer of Celtic Womenfest, I came to the Copper Coast, kindly invited by Angela Mulcahy & Sean Corcoran. They were launching a film that they had been part of making with local people about the painter Edith Collier. After Edith had passed away, a trust was set up in New Zealand to preserve her work.

I was struck by the story, particularly the nine forgotten women painters, whose names & subsequent lives are unknown. I could visualise the women as coloured ribbons on the wind, floating on the raven circled trees that featured in the film and when I got home I wrote a poem called ‘9 coloured ribbons’.

Later in the year, Angela invited me back to Gealech Gorm Songwriting Festival, where I sang the poem on my ukulele.

Sean and Angela filmed it live, with the audience spontaneously harmonising. It was a very moving experience as a writer, to have a packed audience all singing the poem that I had written for them and I felt a real bond through the piece. I brought a box of shells with me that I had collected from the beach where I live near New Quay West Wales, and everyone came to me afterwards to take a little piece of my coastline home with them, in much the way I had taken a little piece of yours with me.

The poem then featured in the end of project publication for Coracle & Sean Corcoran read it to 9 young girls at The Art Hand who mounted coloured ribbons and sent me a photograph of themselves. I was so incredibly moved. Is this not the strength of words? That they can travel, inspire, can blow on the wind like seeds planting ideas across the seas.

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The Ballad of Christine Delaney by Tom Power Christine Delaney lived on a farm She has ninety acres a house and a barn She milked her cows, she baled her hay At harvest time she was busy all day She worked hard from morning to night Christine Delaney was a beautiful sight Long blonde hair the sun would caress She was quite casual in her sense of dress Faded old jeans, a checked cotton shirt That’s what she wore when she was at work I work with her, I am a hired hand And I help Christine to farm her land I remember the day he came to her place He drove in the yard a smile on his face A travelling salesman out from the town Selling his wares, just doing his rounds He used his charm to win Christine’s heart promised the world, said they’d never part He took Christine to the bright city lights They wined and dined there every night He did everything to win Christine’s hand And early in April he bought a gold band Early in April Christine was wed And on the second of June her husband lay dead Christine Delaney the pride of our place Always so friendly a smile on her face What a great neighbour, the best of them all Always willing to help a lost cause If you had a problem and in despair You always knew that Christine was there She was the one to knock on your door Do what she could, then do some more Page 5

I’ll always remember that hot day in June The time I’m sure was just around noon Bridget McGuire was a student in Cork Home on her holidays doing casual work We were all busy at silage that day Bridget was cooking and a good one they say Christine went in, for a cold drink she said She found her husband and Bridget in bed Then she went to get her shotgun Bridget came out like a hare on the run Out on the pit we heard the gun roar Christine’s husband lay dead on the floor Christine Delaney what have you done Why did you shoot that son of a gun He was a two timer, he played around She got her gun and she shot him down The squad car is coming I hear the wail Christine Delaney is now going to jail They have come to take her away For shooting that cheater she’ll have to pay She’s in the car going down the lane Tears in her eyes, her heart in great pain I still work the farm, I work it alone And I’ll be here when Christine comes home.

Christine Delaney the pride of our place Always so friendly a smile on her face What a great neighbour, the best of them all Always willing to help a lost cause If you had a problem and in despair You always knew that Christine was there She was the one to knock on your door Do what she could, then do some more Page 6

Man Proposes by Judith Flynn

My calendar is pretty full for the next week or two.

I'm going to be quite busy with lots of things to do There's clothes to sort and bags to pack for our long weekend in Spain And tickets to reserve today for the play in Garter Lane.

My cousin's coming over and to avoid any hassle I've booked ourselves an "Early Bird" across in Waterford Castle.

On Friday night we're meeting up with two friends for a drink And at the weekend I will have a grandchild round, I think.

There's an outing planned on Sunday for the Cliff Walk in Ardmore I won't forget to wear strong shoes in case my feet get sore!

I plan to do some "pick your own", make strawberry preserve 'Twill be lovely through the winter... it's what we all deserve!

On Wednesday of the following week I've got quite a strong hunch The girls will be in touch once more for our fortnightly lunch.

That leaves a gap on Thursday. I'll have a well-earned rest, And then...Oh God! I've just...got such...a bad pain...in...my...che Page 7

The Carriganure Fox by Willie Murray 1907 Come all ye sporting gentlemen and listen to my song It’s only a few verses and I won’t detain you long Concerning of this awful run of forty miles or more With the greyhound fox of Carriganure And the hounds of Curraghmore.

On the day they had this famous run they had a splendid meet But those gentlemen have horses to keep Reynard on his feet Carriganure is their first meet, this famous fox lies there He can scout the hills and valleys far better than any hare.

A man named Hynes he coached those hounds and that without a doubt But the Greyhound Fox he’d puzzle them, for he’d take an awkward route He’ll first run for Rathanny and then for Lissahane And if the wind will favour him he will go on for Bonmahon.

There was Power and Captain Getting the two best men you’ll find And when the Tally Ho goes up, they are never far behind The Fox he broke at Hackettstown, and the first man that I saw Was Mr George F. Malcomson a native of Portlaw.

A man named Robert Phelan he feeds this fox with care And keeps him in his lurking place until the hounds come there For there he lies in ambush until anything comes across But he has to rise and shake his brush, when they meet at Carroll’s Cross.

I must congratulate those horsemen with their dogs and masters too.

For they are as fast as any greyhound that ran at waterloo Power and Captain Getting are as good as you can find For when the Tally Ho is on they are never far behind.

And now my song is ended and I’ll leave my pen aside For the men who hunt this famous fox, there is no mistake can ride And they will do next season as they have done before With the Greyhound Fox of Carriganure and the hounds of Curraghmore.

About this ballad by Angela Mulcahy My Grandfather Willie Murray composed this and many other ballads and had quite a reputation for putting local events to verse. Apparently this Carriganure Fox was a famous animal. A change of foxes on January 18th 1906 after a hunting run of 3 hours 5 minutes saved his life and the following year he escaped in the dark after a chase lasting 3 hours and 20 minutes.

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Riddle of the Sphinx by Enya Eccleston, Age 9 One day, a class of animals in Woodby School learnt about the sphinx’s riddle and that was when it all began...Artemis was by far the most popular in the class. Artemis said I shall find the sphinx and answer it’s riddle. Then the teacher told the children about the sphinx, she said “The Egyptian sphinx has a human head on a lion’s body. It is very smart and loves riddles”. All of a sudden the teacher said “Home time!”.

The next day Ballie said to Artemis “Do you want to come with me?”. Artemis said “Yeah, so that I can show you how I shall solve the riddle”. Then they went to find a sphinx. They found a stone door guarded by a sphinx.

Ballie said “Hi Sphinx, can you tell me your riddle?”. The sphinx said “Yes, I shall tell you my riddle, here it goes: What walks on four legs, then two legs, then three?” Artemis did not know, but Ballie did. “A man”, whispered Ballie. “Yes!” exclaimed the surprised sphinx. The stone door opened and inside were two magic stars.

They brought them home and became best friends forever.

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The All Ireland Final by Belle Walsh, Age 10 Finally, the day had arrived. Aunt Jess and my mum were bringing me to The All-Ireland Final. Dark and light blue streamers were hanging all over our car. My mum was originally from Dublin.

Ciara, my friend, was travelling up to Dublin with her GAA club.

We were planning to meet her in Dun Laoighire. “Oh Sugar!” said Mum. ”Not the petrol” said Aunt Jess. “But what about the final?” I wailed. “Sorry”, cried Mum. Just as we had all begun to despair, music filled the air and a striped green and red Volkswagon van came rumbling up the road, with six Mayo supporters in tow. “Oh great!” I said rolling my eyes.

They pulled in and a big fat man wearing green and red shouted, “Want a ride?”. “Are you going through Dun Laoighire?” asked Mum. “Yes”, he replied.

“What other choice do we have?” Mum asked. For me it was torture.

But Mum was right. What other choice did we have? The trip to Dun Laoighire was long and full of songs about Mayo! Eventually, we pulled in at Croke Park, exhausted. But my mood picked up instantly when we got out. The atmosphere was amazing.

We thanked the fat man and joined the queue for tickets. We paid and took our seats. I’m not very good at commentary so I’ll just tell you, we won! Dublin did it. What a match! I will always remember The All-Ireland Final!

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Viagra Fagan by Speedy Kaynine

Fagan the mongrel dog lived in our town a nice little mutt always travelling around He’d ramble down main street, sniff here and there and cock his leg at the lamp posts all round the square One morning when rambling in from the hills on the ground at the chemist he found Viagra pills Now Fagan being nosy, he gave them a try and swallowed them all in a wink of an eye All of a sudden he jumped ten feet in the air and both of his eyes had a strange kind of stare He turned around three times and gave a loud bark and exceeding a hundred he ran towards the park Now in this park the dogs they were plenty at various ages between one and twenty A snobby little Poodle by the name of Miss Prim lost her virginity and her big ways to him A nice little Collie, he completely outfoxed her and then for desert, a Dalmatian and Boxer An old stray Donkey was grazing the grass but Fagan just smiled and said, that’s a fine piece of ass A few minutes after he was finished the Donkey what should he see but someones pet Monkey He grabbed her banana and said come here to me but the Monkey quite startled ran up a tree But Fagan like superman took to the air and had the Monkey and a crow that was nesting there Within a week all dogs had deserted that town and that left Fagan feeling quite down He sighed to himself and said it’s a pity Now I must move to Dublin’s fair city.

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The Floozy in the Jacuzzi didn’t stand a chance and then an Elk Hound coming home from a dance An old sea dog said you should visit Monto the dogs up there were always quite pronto An English retriever over here on her hen didn’t get a chance to say where or when And next a Welsh Corgi who lived in the valley and then a Great Dane up a back alley A posh Afghan Hound from Dublin four, in the middle of the day, outside her front door Now this provoked action from the mayor of that town, he said this dog, he must be put down Five thousand reward I will put on his tail, and a girl at the bar who was drinking some ale She said to her fiend that Mayor is quite thick, the five thousand reward should be on his wick But Fagan carried on and eluded them all, he even had time to visit the Dail He looked at them all but for just a few minutes, and said to himself, even a dog has his limits A posse was formed and they searched up and down but Fagan the mongrel dog could never be found Now the legend of Fagan has spread everywhere from the hills of the Comeragh’s to the plains of Kildare From Kerry to Derry, from Dublin to Mayo they talk of Fagan wherever you go And when his story is told around the fireside at night dogs of all ages, they quiver in fright For they know he’s out there, and he’s willing and able, that mongrel dog they call Viagra Fagan.

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Sailing by R贸is铆n Power Hackett Sailing white fiberglass yachts, shining As if carved from cool sleek marble blocks, They are sharp as knives, slice storms in two, And rise, like flecks of dust, white seabirds from the foaming waves.

I would sail regatta after regatta, round the world trips, Through howling winds and thirty foot panther paw waves.

The hard icy rain could blanch my skin, The ropes could wear my hands to polished bone.

I would tire myself out to beyond beyond Until my eyes dark circles reach my toes And the depth of the sea seemed like a bed to me.

When sailing on a black sea through a swirling violet sky, Lightening might pierce the nervous airless space And strike the mast, sending a deep shudder through to its heart, And into the marrow of my bones.

The lightening might do that and the waves this, But the elements would be a welcome distraction To rock me at their will, I could become the wind, The heron could tangle my hair and the waves tickle my feet.

I would not sink as long as I had no opportunity to think Or reflect upon, the dangerous subject of Loving.

I would live as the wind, Restlessly, relentlessly shoving air from North to South and back again.

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Leaving Amsterdam by Clare Scott Hissing on wet tar, gliding through a warm autumn night, wrapped up in steady soft whispers, riders slide quietly by, bicycles dark, streetlights fuzzy echoes on the slick surface.

A yellow tinged, silver moon, nearly whole, shadowed by dark trees, lights overhead in the misted sky rising, rising straight as an arrow over Vondelpark, leaving Schiphol.

There are things that I will miss.

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