Poems for All Occasions by Mairead Tuohy Duffy

FATHER’S BOG MEITHEAL
    His hat sloping sideways,
    Determination in every step,
    He moved past the furze hedges
    On the pebble strewn boreen.
    Morning shadows peering
    On the mountain above Gortalassa.
    He leads his meitheal of men,
    Dignified as a king leading an army over rocky bog path,
    Pebbles, sticking like darts through our Summer sandals
    Causing painful bruises, which filled, a week later
    With poisonous yellow matter,
    Requiring a poultice bandage of hot burning porridge,
    As hot as ever I imagined the fires of hell to be.
    The beauty of the bog, with its white ceanabhan,
    Floating like soft wool in the mountain breeze.
    The soothing smell of purple heather snugly sheltered in
    rock crevices, Dotting the silent bog,
    Filled with dark mysterious peat ,undisturbed
    in its habitat
    For centuries and centuries,
    Its hidden wonders, ripe and ready,
    To be cut, thrown and saved,
    To warm our hearths and homes
    With the onslaught of Winter.
    Fascinated, I watched in admiration
    The men of strength and muscle.
    Grasping sleans, dexterity displayed,
    Butter like cutting, with gentle swing,
    Artistically sliced and shaped,
    Sculpture of a talented craft.
    Each portion like new life
    Flying from the slean’s womb.
    I gasped at the accuracy of the throw,
    With effortless ability each sod
    Pitched ten to thirty feet
    And landed exactly in line .
    Yet, those sleán wielding artists
    Were humble, unconcerned,
    Sleeves pulled above bony elbows,
    Hair falling over tan foreheads,
    They made their craft look as simple
    As throwing a rubber ball
    Over brambles on the grey road
    Down by Roughty Bridge, at eventide.
    The screams of joyful children
    Gathering “Brosna” dry and crisp
    To heat the black kettle o’er flames
    Which sent purple smoke into the skies,
    Intermingling with bubbling vapour
    From the boiling tea,which never tasted so good,
    Wetting sandwiches of bacon
    And large junks of currant bread
    Covered with melting butter,
    Sending a warmth through our bodies,
    As we sat there cross legged
    On a cushion of moss and heather
    Drinking black tea, the beverage of Gods.
    Stories were told, backs ached,
    Sweat poured, yet my heart jumps
    In ecstatic remembrance of our antics
    In the bog above Gortalassa.
    A week of soft winds and sunshine
    Saw the footed peat sods
    Transform into hard black turf,
    Which became a decorative rick
    Artistically shaped and clamped
    In our back yard haggard.
    Eventually to return as ashes
    To the soil in Roughty Valley.
    From its bog womb in Gortalassa
    To the green fields and meadows,
    From cradle to grave
    Just like its slean artists,
    Many of whom now sleep
    In mossy graves by Kenmare Bay,
    Their stalward limbs in ashes
    And the gates to the old bog closed forever.
    High over the furze and mountain heather
    Curlews still swoop downwards
    Digging for nourishment n the submerged marsh
    THE GORTALASSA BOG, A MEMORY
    ( MEITHEAL is the Gaelic word for a group of unpaid
    neighbours, who helped one another to cut turf.
    SLEAN is the implement used for cutting turf.
    BROSNA is the Gaelic word for bits of timber
    and wood collected for to light a fire.CEANABHAN is Gaelic for bog cotton.

THE CAMAN SWINGERS OF LONG AGO
    The native game of Ireland, swift, athletic, pure,
    Setanta swung the caman and killed the mighty “Cu,”
    Along the Roughty Valley, its roots deep in the past,
    Were teams of note and spirit, always superior class.
    The Village of Kilgarvan was noted far and wide,
    For breeding caman swingers, no better would you fnd.
    We heard the names of former men,
    who captained the Village team,
    Jack “ Jubert,” was their captain ‘gainst Parnells in sweet Tralee.
    Jim O’Brien of Fossa House was captain in ’33,
    They reached the Semi final, but Causeway ruined their dream.
    Undaunted, a decade later, ’44 the year,
    Young Richie Purcell led the team, one of the finest hurling men.
    Emigration took its toll, and stalwart men moved out,
    Kiìgarvan strove with courage, to DEFEAT they