Castletroy Words

 I live my life but sometimes memories get overwhelming. But in Ireland people are hostile to the concept of trauma and flashbacks and they try to silence you tell you you're not believed, tell you that if you have anything to say, you have to be a mental health or say it to the gardai if you have anything to say. I recently experienced this from a place that was supposed to be a support service. For many years I looked for a variation of my own on Phil Collins 'Both sides of the story', which sadly tells a significant part of my life. I've made a start - The Triangle: We see him walking up the road, The weight of a sawn-off shotgun in the afternoon, The air tasting of petrol bombs and adrenaline. They see a neighborhood at war, A headline in a morning paper, Just another flashpoint on a map. But they don’t feel the sudden shatter, The heavy weight of a breezeblock thrown, The hour and moment a father’s skull broke. They just see the orange lights reflecting on asphalt,...

 Here's an old favourite.  The Cold Institution. I still recall the harsh, unblinking light, The laughter gone, the corridors made bare; The endless ends when help was out of sight, The bowed-down heads that learned to breathe in fear. I entered full of hope, alive with flame, And crossed those doors in trust, intact, and whole; Too soon the ache, the terror, dulling shame Crept fast, yet could not fully take my soul. I’ve faced far worse than ignorant men like these, Yet scars remain where cruelty held sway; I fled, still marked, but claimed my right to breathe, Escaped the cold, punitive display. Their voices blamed me — don’t survivors know That wounds may heal while injustice stays? Still I will stand, remember, watch it go, This brittle rule, this barren, joyless maze. For kinder things will rise to take its place; I’ll claim the aim I carried through that door. Their arrogance will fail, their power waste, While I endure — and stand, and am, and more. Dedicated to the su...

 I long to throw off these chains and dance dance as if nothing mattered and music was everything life weighs heavy and survival is everything but I long to dance again with the music echoing in the empty room dance as we used to dance before the days got darker  dance as if music was everything and nothing else mattered and you were here to dance with me

I remember Enfield and the sweet grey air, the relief of landing, the strangeness of Ireland, the fast traffic, the litter and the friendliness of the people, the roadside graves, the royal canal and the tall grasses, and the lovely town. Where the bypass hums with a restless modern engine, but the water holds the shadow of the old stone walls, and the swans cut lines through the quiet afternoon. A gateway opening to the wider fields of Meath, where neon signs and ancient soil meet at the crossroads, and a stranger is offered a smile before a name.

Mayo Series.   From Meath to Mayo. The Sheepdog Running. Seamus, Bill and Missie in the valley. A flash of black and white against the grey-green, She clears the low stone wall with steady grace, The swiftest shadow the hills have seen, With low-slung shoulders and a lowered face. She balances upon the cold brown stone, And watches with a calm but wary eye, Content to sit and guard the flock alone, Until a whistle echoes the valley sky. Down she leaps and flies through the heather, With freedom that she doesn't know we envy, Though paws grow slow in the biting weather, And soon a pup will take her place completely. Through the valley depths she takes her flight, Her coat a banner streaming in the gale, She runs against the wind with all her might, A streak of silver down the stony vale. We all need our sabbath, girl, we all need our rest, As shadows lengthen on the valley floor, You’ve given to these hills your very best, And ran until your ancient paws were sore. But can you ...

Working on specific childhood memories today, had to do quite a lot of anonymising of situations to publish this.  Crossfire. Helpless children caught in the crossfire, the world of adults beyond comprehension, throwing us like castaways into the sea. There is no reasoning, no safety, nowhere to rest, to shelter, to cling to. With nowhere to go, overstaying our welcome, huddled away while the chaos echoes around us. The damage is slowly building, growing into us as roots grow into soil, the bad growth becoming irreparable, the pathways corrupting, the foundation breaking. A childhood spent in unregulated chaos, trapped in a world that had no room for us, setting a future without hope, a life of suffering ahead of us.

  I went home yesterday, a place where the wind says my name and laughs. And deep inside, there is still some joy. But there is no one there. I went to remember the anniversary of one of many gone, but there was no one there to greet me. I was so terribly alone. I am alone. I am so alone, and no one can hear me, no one can reach me. Everyone I loved, everyone I trusted, is gone. I am so alone— just a memory of company, of love, of laughter, of closeness. An empty world now, where all I know of closeness is hurt. It is hard to go on. But somewhere inside me I find the strength. And I go on.

A while back I wrote two about different people who were like sisters. This is the one on my mind at the moment. So I'm reposting it.  You were like a sister to me. I will miss you. You had energy and life in you, always bouncing like Tigger, bringing movement into every room. But you didn't trust me. You lied to me. And so I'm stepping away. I had a sister once. She was very like you. We were close—so close that when she would sit by the railway tracks, thinking of ending her life, she would come back and tell me. Not our parents. They lived in a world of their own, and when a man hurt her, they could not give her the support she needed. So she sat on the shore and watched the sea. She walked the railway line. She carried storms inside herself. And when she came back, she told me. That's why I know that sisters carry wounds. I know they carry secrets. I know they can love fiercely, even when they are hurting. Perhaps that's why I cared for you as I did. And now I...

  Miles of nothing, no one, just the grey low cloud and the sea beating on the cliffs below.  I walk and walk, alone, the small world around me a circle in the cloud, with no one but me. I walk the grey, stony path carefully, the wind buffeting me towards the cliff edge. A truly empty world.  It feels as if I will walk forever, in a dream, and the grey silence and solitude will never end.  There is none but me. To be like this is paradise, but against human nature. The clouds lift a little.  The edge of the loch is there,  a few curious sheep who have nothing to fear from this dreamscape,  and a few curious ponies, their muzzles pointed towards me, before they skip and skitter away. And then the collie barks at the farmhouse. The mist is lifting. The dream is ending.

  On Arthur's Quay the candles glow just as they did two years ago I stand and think of you as the leaves in whirlwind blow Keep those who didn't fail you and the rest, it's time to let go. 

Mayo Series.  True Light She was a fishing Hooker out of Cleggan, 'True Light of the Claddagh' Survived the Cleggan Disaster, legend, She fished on bravely until she retired  as a leisure cruiser, and faded away,  True Light,  a racing skiff out of Galway, 'An Truelight', I talk to him of the boats,  she's tied up alongside the harbour wall,  dreaming of the races, we talk of True Light and Cleggan I talk of Roonagh and Louisburgh,  I remember the two boats turning on the water in sync, one after the other,  True Light, Out of Clare Island and Roonagh-Louisburgh,  MV True Light, O'Malley's legacy, the little ferry,  True Light turns on the water,  in perfect sync with Naomh behind as they come alongside and I see you standing there smiling you who are laid to rest here  in this beautiful place with your brothers, who we never forgot, whose pictures remain, My own True Light. My guide and inspiration. Your memory guides me now i...

Candles in the dark spell HOPE even though the ones we remember are gone the hope is for us and for our future as we remember them  and we remember them I step forward and say your name my dear guardian, True Light and the grief overwhelms me You are irreplaceable but as we stand here you are close by Good people are like stars in the sky I'd forgotten so much that it's a year since you died Good people show us all we need to know about the world be my guide now, be my Hope.  True Light, two words you and I understand Hope. 

  Two years. Two years you have stood beside me through thick and thin— through tears, through rage, through despair, through rain and cold. You were constant. When I had nowhere to go, you opened your doors. When he left me with nothing but the street beneath my feet, you gave me shelter. And so many days I sat in your light and presence— resting, dreaming, praying, wishing, hoping for better. So many days I came to you carrying what he had done to me. I cried beneath your roof. I sat in silence. I tried to gather myself piece by piece. And you saw me. You saw me in all my weathers— in the rain and the cold, in the fury and the fear, in despair, in hope, in all the broken states a person can be. You were there. For two years, you were part of my life. And I will miss you. I will miss the familiar light, the quiet, the shelter, the people who gathered around you. I will miss the feeling of having somewhere to go. But there comes a time when even a sanctuary can no longer be home. B...