Reflections from Nancy and Trudy

 

Mike and I weren’t the only ones who were inspired to write poems while Smithing Ireland. While we wrote silly limericks, Nancy was more eloquent and introspective with a beautiful free verse poem she has entitled “Dingle.” In a short note about the inspiration for her poem, Nancy wrote,

“I am amazed that I have a part of Dingle here at the river, which makes me feel so connected to our heritage.”

As you walked the streets of Ballyferriter or elsewhere on the Dingle Peninsula perhaps you too felt a connection to your Irish heritage.   We need to linger over Nancy’s verse, reading it twice or more to absorb the images and to give our minds time to consider what part of Kerry we find in our own lives.

Dingle

Ahhh….the Dingle Peninsula
and the expanse of the bay
where our roots flow
by hills of green squares
dotted with the merry Kerry lambs,
within endless walls
of stones carefully placed
inching up the hills…
trimmed with foxglove bells,
ruby purple fuchsia
all wild and profuse
“like ballerinas dancing”…
mounds of rosa rugosa
spilling towards roadside
among orange montbrecia,
white pink yarrow,
amidst the lavender shades
of the hydrangea
and Queen Anne’s lace…
a magic land
where the fairy people
sing our praises
in Gaelic verse
and invite us to remember…
our long ago folks
fishing the wild bays
in canvas boats…
cutting the peat
early in the morn
to warm their kitchens
for the spinning
of their tales,
the singing of their ballads
filled with mirth and woe…
all leaves me to wonder…
my love
for penning some verse,
for waves of wildflowers
planted on plots
above dry stacked
stone walls,
for sailing on open waters
with the river winds
at my back….
’Tis a bit of Dingle
back home
sent down through
the ages…..
’tis the wee people at work
of that I am sure!

Nancy Beck Misenko

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Once home, Trudy also turned to poetry to reflect on her experience in Ireland. She was remembering some of the literature our guide Batt Burns recited to give us a feel for the land and culture we were exploring. Trudy sent me an email with this preface:

“I'm attaching the poem that meant the most to me—partly because it was about Kerry and partly because it also reminded me of growing up in Sargent.  It was one of the first that Batt recited to us on our way from Shannon to Sneem.”

I thought of Rosemary when I read the first two lines, remembering that her roots also run deep in the home she knew for most of her life. Paraphrasing this poet, one could say---
Rosemary (like many of the Smith Cousins)
is Sargent like her mother before her and her mother’s mother and her father and her father’s father . . .

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I am Kerry

I am Kerry like my mother before me,
And my mother's mother and her man.
Now I sit on an office stool remembering,
And the memory of them like a fan
Soothes the embers into flame.
I am Kerry and proud of my name.

My heart is looped around the rutted hills,
That shoulder the stars out of the sky,
And about the wasp-yellow fields,
And the strands where kelp-streamers lie;
Where, soft as lovers' Gaelic, the rain falls,
Sweeping into silver the lacy mountain walls.

My grandfather tended the turf fire,
And, leaning backward into legend,spoke,
Of doings old before quills inked history.
I saw dark heroes fighting in the smoke,
Diarmuid dead inside his Iveragh cave,
And Deirdrie caoining[keening] upon Naoise's grave.

I see the wise face now with its hundred wrinkles,
And every wrinkle held a thousand tales,
Of Finn and Oscar and Conawn Maol,
And sea-proud Niall whose conquering sails,
Raiding France for slaves and wine,
Brought Patrick to mind Milchu's swine.

I should have put a noose about the throat of time,
And choked the passing of the hob-nailed years,
And stayed young always, shouting in the hills,
Where life held only fairy fears,
When I was young my feet were bare,
But I drove cattle to the fair.

'Twas thus I lived, skin to skin with the earth,
Elbowed by the hills, drenched by the billows,
Watching the wild geese making black wedges,
By Skelligs far west and Annascaul of the willows.
Their voices came on every little wind,
Whispering across the half-door of the mind,
For always I am Kerry...
           Sigerson Clifford

I would be very interested in hearing your reflections on Nancy’s poem, and on the one Trudy sent. Maybe there were one or two lines that especially hit home with you, or an image that seemed written just for you.  We would welcome your shared thoughts sent to me at bowdavis@msn.com, comments I will then add to the blog.