{"id":26599,"date":"2014-09-21T20:56:28","date_gmt":"2014-09-21T20:56:28","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.eoisabi.org\/?p=26599"},"modified":"2020-03-27T01:02:36","modified_gmt":"2020-03-27T01:02:36","slug":"tomas-o-carthaigh","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/englishroam.com\/?p=26599","title":{"rendered":"Tom\u00e1s \u00d3 C\u00e1rthaigh + Seamus Heaney"},"content":{"rendered":"<p style=\"text-align: justify;\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignleft size-full wp-image-26600\" src=\"http:\/\/englishroam.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/05\/T_O_C.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"114\" height=\"85\" \/>Born in Ballinasloe in County Galway, Ireland, <strong>Tom\u00e1s \u00d3 C\u00e1rthaigh<\/strong>\u00a0grew up in Offaly and currently lives and works in Tullamore in the north of Co. Offaly.<br \/>\nWriting for Tom\u00e1s is a passion, he was the winner of the Readings from the Pallet festival in Banagher in 2010, and also featured at the Poets Express festival in Bantry in 2009 and 2010. He&#8217;s been published in online magazines among them <strong>Danse Macabre, Immagine &amp; Poesia, Whisper n Thunder<\/strong> among others, and also <strong>Irelands Poetry Bus<\/strong>.<br \/>\nHe runs his own magazine <a href=\"http:\/\/www.cartyspoetryjournal.com\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"><strong>Cartys Poetry Journal<\/strong><\/a>. Tom\u00e1s writes haiku \/ haiban and rhyming poetry mainly, occasionaly dabbling in free verse.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">\u2192<a href=\"http:\/\/cartyspoetryjournal.com\/Issue_06\/CPJ-VI.pdf\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">http:\/\/cartyspoetryjournal.com\/Issue_06\/CPJ-VI.pdf<\/a><\/p>\n<address style=\"text-align: justify;\">\u00ab_I love reading others&#8217; work too, and the work of the three Roberts, <strong>Burns<\/strong>, <strong>Frost<\/strong> and <strong>Service<\/strong> have been a major influence on me, as have the Irish writers <strong>Yeats,<\/strong> <strong>Colum<\/strong> and <strong>Moore<\/strong>&#8230;\u00a0I like to write old fashioned poetry&#8230; you know&#8230; the boring kind that rhymes!!! I write on all topics, from the current train of thought-\u00ab<\/address>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\"><strong>\u00a4 \u00a0Some video poems<\/strong>\u00a0\u2192<a href=\"http:\/\/www.youtube.com\/user\/tomasocarthaigh\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">http:\/\/www.youtube.com\/user\/tomasocarthaigh<\/a><\/p>\n<p><strong>\u2022 \u00a0Read . . .<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>\u2192\u00a0<a href=\"http:\/\/www.writerscafe.org\/TomasOCarthaigh\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">http:\/\/www.writerscafe.org\/TomasOCarthaigh<\/a><\/p>\n<p>\u2192\u00a0<a href=\"http:\/\/poemhunter.com\/i\/ebooks\/pdf\/tomas_o_carthaigh_2008_4.pdf\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">http:\/\/poemhunter.com\/i\/ebooks\/pdf\/tomas_o_carthaigh_2008_4.pdf<\/a><\/p>\n<p>\u2192\u00a0<a href=\"http:\/\/www.celtichosting.com\/writingsinrhyme\/Site\/Contents_Page.html\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">http:\/\/www.celtichosting.com\/writingsinrhyme\/Site\/Contents_Page.html<\/a><\/p>\n<p>\u2192\u00a0<a href=\"http:\/\/www.writingsinrhyme.com\/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">http:\/\/www.writingsinrhyme.com\/<\/a><\/p>\n<h3 style=\"text-align: center;\"><span style=\"color: #008000;\">\u00a4 \u00a0Seamus Heaney \u00a0 \u2193 \u00a0[1939-2013]\u00a0<\/span><\/h3>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\"><iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/3Hqtcsq0FV0\" width=\"560\" height=\"315\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen=\"allowfullscreen\"><\/iframe><\/p>\n<h6 id=\"watch-headline-title\" class=\"yt\" style=\"font-weight: normal; color: #222222; text-align: right;\"><span id=\"eow-title\" class=\"watch-title  \" dir=\"ltr\" title=\"Seamus Heaney   Mid Term Break\"><strong>\u21d3 \u00a0&#8216;Mid Term Break&#8217;<\/strong>\u00a0<\/span><\/h6>\n<p class=\"yt\" style=\"font-weight: normal; color: #222222; text-align: right;\"><span id=\"eow-title\" class=\"watch-title  \" dir=\"ltr\" title=\"Seamus Heaney   Mid Term Break\">Seamus Heaney reading his poem about his younger brother&#8217;s death, when he was a pupil at college in Derry.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\"><iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/uF0U0pVK0bk\" width=\"560\" height=\"315\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen=\"allowfullscreen\"><\/iframe><\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\">I sat all morning in the college sick bay<br \/>\nCounting bells knelling classes to a close.<br \/>\nAt two o&#8217;clock our neighbors drove me home.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\">In the porch I met my father crying&#8211;<br \/>\nHe had always taken funerals in his stride&#8211;<br \/>\nAnd Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\">The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram<br \/>\nWhen I came in, and I was embarrassed<br \/>\nBy old men standing up to shake my hand<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\">And tell me they were \u00absorry for my trouble,\u00bb<br \/>\nWhispers informed strangers I was the eldest,<br \/>\nAway at school, as my mother held my hand<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\">In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.<br \/>\nAt ten o&#8217;clock the ambulance arrived<br \/>\nWith the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\">Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops<br \/>\nAnd candles soothed the bedside; I saw him<br \/>\nFor the first time in six weeks. Paler now,<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\">Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,<br \/>\nHe lay in the four foot box as in his cot.<br \/>\nNo gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\">A four foot box, a foot for every year.<\/p>\n<h6>\u2666 \u00a0\u00abDigging\u00bb \u00a0\u2193<\/h6>\n<p><iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/KNRkPU1LSUg\" width=\"560\" height=\"315\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen=\"allowfullscreen\"><\/iframe><\/p>\n<p>Between my finger and my thumb<br \/>\nThe squat pen rests; snug as a gun.<\/p>\n<p>Under my window, a clean rasping sound<br \/>\nWhen the spade sinks into gravelly ground:<br \/>\nMy father, digging. I look down<\/p>\n<p>Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds<br \/>\nBends low, comes up twenty years away<br \/>\nStooping in rhythm through potato drills<br \/>\nWhere he was digging.<\/p>\n<p>The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft<br \/>\nAgainst the inside knee was levered firmly.<br \/>\nHe rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep<br \/>\nTo scatter new potatoes that we picked,<br \/>\nLoving their cool hardness in our hands.<\/p>\n<p>By God, the old man could handle a spade.<br \/>\nJust like his old man.<\/p>\n<p>My grandfather cut more turf in a day<br \/>\nThan any other man on Toner&#8217;s bog.<br \/>\nOnce I carried him milk in a bottle<br \/>\nCorked sloppily with paper. He straightened up<br \/>\nTo drink it, then fell to right away<br \/>\nNicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods<br \/>\nOver his shoulder, going down and down<br \/>\nFor the good turf. Digging.<\/p>\n<p>The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap<br \/>\nOf soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge<br \/>\nThrough living roots awaken in my head.<br \/>\nBut I&#8217;ve no spade to follow men like them.<\/p>\n<p>Between my finger and my thumb<br \/>\nThe squat pen rests.<br \/>\nI&#8217;ll dig with it.<\/p>\n<h6 style=\"text-align: left;\">\u2666 \u00abBlackberry Picking\u00bb\u00a0\u2193<\/h6>\n<p><iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/HhBK5_zLwJY\" width=\"480\" height=\"360\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen=\"allowfullscreen\"><\/iframe><\/p>\n<p>Late August, given heavy rain and sun<br \/>\nFor a full week, the blackberries would ripen.<br \/>\nAt first, just one, a glossy purple clot<br \/>\nAmong others, red, green, hard as a knot.<br \/>\nYou ate that first one and its flesh was sweet<br \/>\nLike thickened wine: summer&#8217;s blood was in it<br \/>\nLeaving stains upon the tongue and lust for<br \/>\nPicking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger<br \/>\nSent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots<br \/>\nWhere briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.<br \/>\nRound hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills<br \/>\nWe trekked and picked until the cans were full<br \/>\nUntil the tinkling bottom had been covered<br \/>\nWith green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned<br \/>\nLike a plate of eyes.<\/p>\n<p>Our hands were peppered<br \/>\nWith thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard&#8217;s.<br \/>\nWe hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.<br \/>\nBut when the bath was filled we found a fur,<br \/>\nA rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.<br \/>\nThe juice was stinking too. Once off the bush<br \/>\nThe fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.<br \/>\nI always felt like crying. It wasn&#8217;t fair<br \/>\nThat all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.<br \/>\nEach year I hoped they&#8217;d keep, knew they would not.<\/p>\n<h6 class=\"red\" style=\"color: #88373f;\">\u2666 \u00a0\u00abThe Blackbird of Glanmore\u00bb\u00a0\u2193<\/h6>\n<p><iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/o6gWx7iUbk0\" width=\"480\" height=\"360\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen=\"allowfullscreen\"><\/iframe><\/p>\n<p style=\"color: #331b00;\">On the grass when I arrive,<br \/>\nFilling the stillness with life,<br \/>\nBut ready to scare off<br \/>\nAt the very first wrong move.<br \/>\nIn the ivy when I leave.<\/p>\n<p style=\"color: #331b00;\">It\u2019s you, blackbird, I love.<\/p>\n<p style=\"color: #331b00;\">I park, pause, take heed.<br \/>\nBreathe. Just breathe and sit<br \/>\nAnd lines I once translated<br \/>\nCome back: \u201cI want away<br \/>\nTo the house of death, to my father<\/p>\n<p style=\"color: #331b00;\">Under the low clay roof.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"color: #331b00;\">And I think of one gone to him,<br \/>\nA little stillness dancer \u2013<br \/>\nHaunter-son, lost brother \u2013<br \/>\nCavorting through the yard,<br \/>\nSo glad to see me home,<\/p>\n<p style=\"color: #331b00;\">My homesick first term over.<\/p>\n<p style=\"color: #331b00;\">And think of a neighbour\u2019s words<br \/>\nLong after the accident:<br \/>\n\u201cYon bird on the shed roof,<br \/>\nUp on the ridge for weeks \u2013<br \/>\nI said nothing at the time<\/p>\n<p style=\"color: #331b00;\">But I never liked yon bird.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"color: #331b00;\">The automatic lock<br \/>\nClunks shut, the blackbird\u2019s panic<br \/>\nIs shortlived, for a second<br \/>\nI\u2019ve a bird\u2019s eye view of myself,<br \/>\nA shadow on raked gravel<\/p>\n<p style=\"color: #331b00;\">In front of my house of life.<\/p>\n<p style=\"color: #331b00;\">Hedge-hop, I am absolute<br \/>\nFor you, your ready talkback,<br \/>\nYour each stand-offish comeback,<br \/>\nYour picky, nervy goldbeak \u2013<br \/>\nOn the grass when I arrive,<\/p>\n<p style=\"color: #331b00;\">In the ivy when I leave.<\/p>\n<h6 class=\"title\" style=\"color: #f88000; text-align: left;\"><span style=\"color: #000000;\">\u2666 \u00a0&#8216;Death Of A Naturalist&#8217; \u00a0\u2193<\/span><\/h6>\n<p><iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/sgsaB4NRSak\" width=\"560\" height=\"315\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen=\"allowfullscreen\"><\/iframe><\/p>\n<p>All year the flax-dam festered in the heart<br \/>\nOf the townland; green and heavy headed<br \/>\nFlax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.<br \/>\nDaily it sweltered in the punishing sun.<\/p>\n<p>Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles<br \/>\nWove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.<br \/>\nThere were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,<br \/>\nBut best of all was the warm thick slobber<br \/>\nOf frogspawn that grew like clotted water<br \/>\nIn the shade of the banks. Here, every spring<br \/>\nI would fill jampotfuls of the jellied<br \/>\nSpecks to range on window-sills at home,<br \/>\nOn shelves at school, and wait and watch until<br \/>\nThe fattening dots burst into nimble-<br \/>\nSwimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how<br \/>\nThe daddy frog was called a bullfrog<br \/>\nAnd how he croaked and how the mammy frog<br \/>\nLaid hundreds of little eggs and this was<br \/>\nFrogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too<br \/>\nFor they were yellow in the sun and brown<br \/>\nIn rain.<br \/>\nThen one hot day when fields were rank<br \/>\nWith cowdung in the grass the angry frogs<br \/>\nInvaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges<br \/>\nTo a coarse croaking that I had not heard<br \/>\nBefore. The air was thick with a bass chorus.<br \/>\nRight down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked<br \/>\nOn sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:<br \/>\nThe slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat<br \/>\nPoised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.<br \/>\nI sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings<br \/>\nWere gathered there for vengeance and I knew<br \/>\nThat if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.<\/p>\n<h6 style=\"text-align: center;\">\u2666 \u00a0\u00abThe Road To Derry\u00bb \u00a0\u2193<\/h6>\n<p><iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/xLMlY56sahI\" width=\"480\" height=\"360\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen=\"allowfullscreen\"><\/iframe><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color: #000000;\">Along Glenshane and Foreglen<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">and the cold woods of Hillhead:<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">A wet wind in the hedges and a dark cloud on the mountain<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">And flags like black frost<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">mourning that the thirteen men were dead<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">The Roe wept at Dungiven and the Foyle cried out to heaven,<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">Burntollet\u2019s old wound opened and again the Bogside bled;<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">By Shipquay Gate I shivered and by Lone Moor I enquired<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">Where I might find the coffins where the thirteen men lay dead.<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">My heart besieged by anger, my mind a gap of danger.<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">I walked among their old haunts.<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">the home ground where they bled;<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">And in the dirt lay justice like an acorn in the winter<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">Till its oak would sprout in Derry<\/span><br style=\"color: #000000;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">where the thirteen men lay dead.<\/span><\/p>\n<h6 style=\"text-align: center;\">\u2666 \u00a0\u00abPostscript\u00bb \u00a0\u2193 \u00a0[read by\u00a0Joseph Nugent]<\/h6>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\"><iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/qi7ZPz7jXxk\" width=\"560\" height=\"315\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen=\"allowfullscreen\"><\/iframe><\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\"><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><span style=\"color: #000000;\"><strong>And<\/strong> some time make the time to drive out west<\/span><\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">In September or October, when the wind<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">And the light are working off each other<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">So that the ocean on one side is wild<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">With foam and glitter, and inland among stones<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">Useless to think you&#8217;ll park and capture it<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">A hurry through which known and strange things pass\u00a0<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways<\/span><br style=\"color: #ffffff;\" \/><span style=\"color: #000000;\">And catch the heart off guard and blow it <strong>open<\/strong>.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p style=\"text-align: justify;\">Born in Ballinasloe in County Galway, Ireland, Tom\u00e1s \u00d3 C\u00e1rthaigh grew up in Offaly and currently lives and works in Tullamore in the north of Co. Offaly. Writing for Tom\u00e1s is a passion, he was the winner of the Readings from the Pallet festival in Banagher in 2010, and also featured at the [&#8230;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":28,"featured_media":39724,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[177,288],"tags":[234,268],"class_list":["post-26599","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-texts","category-poem","tag-ireland","tag-writers","odd"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/englishroam.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/26599","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/englishroam.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/englishroam.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/englishroam.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/28"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/englishroam.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=26599"}],"version-history":[{"count":15,"href":"https:\/\/englishroam.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/26599\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":51016,"href":"https:\/\/englishroam.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/26599\/revisions\/51016"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/englishroam.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/39724"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/englishroam.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=26599"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/englishroam.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=26599"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/englishroam.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=26599"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}