A Wet August Day In Millstreet
From Claramore the rill in flood flow brown
Through Claraghatlea a mile from Millstreet Town
And dark to gray rain clouds across the sky
Tell that more heavy showers of rain are nigh.
You know that bird to whom the voice belong
When you hear the dipper sing his scratchy song
He pipe his loudest when the flood is high
And the wet conditions he seem to enjoy.
The last thing that the farmer needs is rain
A hungry Winter for his stock again
In August only four or five days dry
And half of his hay crop rotted in July.
And yet in all of his years he has not seen
His fields in August quite so lush and green
And he can only hope for a good Fall
And that September will be drier after all.
O'er rushy fields by where the rivers meet
Perhaps a mile from the Town of Millstreet
The little lark of Humankind quite shy
Above the rain clouds carolling as he fly.
The Winter months the Duhallow farmer fear
The very wet Summer has cost him dear
And from Claramore the rill in flood flow brown
Through Claraghatlea a mile from Millstreet Town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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When People Ask Me Where I Come From
I am just a peasant fellow without pretension to renown
But in some ways I feel lucky I was raised near Millstreet Town
And if anybody ask me where are you from anyway?
I tell them I come from Millstreet from a place called Claraghatlea.
Claraghatlea that sounds a strange name and where the hecks might Millstreet be?
I tell them a Town in North Cork inland distant from the sea
In green and fertile Duhallow with high mountains all around
Where you can view the finest scenery when you climb the higher ground.
Of Millstreet you paint a good picture but how do it compare to here?
We only read of wet Ireland where the skies are seldom clear
Not much point in pretty scenery if the weather's seldom fine
Give me Queensland and warm weather, golden beaches and sunshine.
With them I don't try to argue each to their own point of view
And what they read of Irish weather in some ways is partly true
But I have often been to Queensland and thought the climate hot and dry
And even in cooler Victoria risk of skin cancer is high.
When people ask me where I come from my heritage I don't deny
I tell them I come from Millstreet twelve thousand miles north as plane fly
Winter months were wet and frosty and in Spring some heavy showers
But from May onwards so much beauty, fields and gardens full of flowers.
It is Spring now in Victoria and today is such a pleasant day
And the grey shrike thrush is whistling in the wood across the way
it is almost perfect weather a high of twenty degrees
And the nestling birds are chirping in their nests high on the trees.
Wish today could last forever but wishing cannot make it be
In the Summer temperatures soar to a high of forty three
And this a cool part of Australia further north it's hot all year
And to some parts rain is a stranger and the drought can hit severe.
When people ask me where I come from west of Millstreet Town I say
In green and fertile Duhallow in a place called Claraghatlea
This Claraghatlea sounds such a strange name and where the hecks might Millstreet be?
I tell them by Clara mountain inland distant from the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sun Showers
Arthur freed / nacio herb brown
Sun showers
Never mind the rain
The sun will shine again
Through sun showers
In a little while
They sky above will srnile
Like luster that follows your kiss
Dark clouds of sorrow
Will soon be a sunny tomorrow
While sun flowers
Raise their happy eyes
Up to the flaming skies
Then sun showers
Leave us as they follow
Rainbows in our hearts
The gray skies soon will clear
My dear
While sun showers are here
song performed by by Billie Holiday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Sneaking Tears
How heavy fell the rain that day
From burdened clouds of mournful grey.
The torrent forced them stay their height -
Composure swayed by onerous might.
My skin wrung wet with icy chill
As mud embraced that sodden hill;
But mind of mine had elsewhere gone -
'Twas clouds abandoned I was on.
The driving drops advanced their gears
To camouflage my sneaking tears -
Whence now did swell such floods of pain
To see me melt into this rain…
On equal bearing now were we:
This rain, myself, in harmony.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
Rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain
Rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain
Rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain
Rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Donal Hickey
We were in the same classroom in Millstreet Primary school
And Donal was a clever boy he never once sat on the dunce's stool
He still lives in the old home in Inchaleigh though I live far away
From Clara hill near Millstreet Town and the fields of Claraghatlea.
He has worked in the Cork Marts for many years three decades maybe more
And he is well into his fifties now and of years near the three score
A hunting man he knows the countryside for miles around
And he could tell you where the earth of fox or badger would be found.
I last met Donal Hickey almost two decades ago
On a November sunday cold and gray the stream bank high did flow
And Clara with the bracken face he wore a cloak of fog
Out hunting with his terriers in Jack the Master's bog.
One who lives close to Nature and of Nature much he know
On sunday he's out hunting rain, hail, sunshine or snow
He keep the best fox terriers the best for miles around
Brave and fearless little hunters for fox they go to ground.
One of the nicest people that one could wish to meet
He still lives in the old homeplace at Inchaleigh in Millstreet
In that green and fertile countryside where the Finnow waters flow
And we were in the same classroom more than forty years ago.
poem by Francis Duggan
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March Horse Fair Day
The morning has a heavy winter chill
And dark rain clouds move over Clara hill
And the old man says that the rain will bucket down
As he stands holding his horse in the Square at Millstreet Town.
In Ireland on March the first the sun doesn't often shine
In fact the day is seldom ever fine
Old February till latter March remain
You take your hat and coat expecting rain.
Near 10 A.M. it makes a heavy shower
And it keeps on raining maybe for an hour
And horses and their owners soaked right to the skin
But rain doesn't worry tough horse loving men.
The deals were clinched with hand slap and hand shake
Your bond your word and your word you would not break
The Town Square packed with people young and old
And deals were done and many horses sold.
And people there from many walks of life
The travelling man with his children and wife,
And the man who owns forty acres of moor
By any standards he's considered poor.
And wealthy farmer down south for the day
To buy good horse and make the journey pay
And horses changed hands when the deals were made
And Uptown pubs were doing a roaring trade.
My thoughts return to happier days gone by
When I was younger and a school going boy
And March horse fair was always school free day
The better memories with us tend to stay.
And I too went to Millstreet old Town Square
For to watch the dealings and the barterings there,
The slap of hands, the handshakes deals were done
And old friendships renewed and new friendships were won.
A nip of winter in the morning air
As people made their way to the horse fair
A shame about the weather some did say
But rain or sleet did not keep them away.
A time of year between winter and spring
Too cold and early yet for birds to sing
Old February till latter March remain
And you take your hat and coat expecting rain.
The morning has a heavy winter chill
And dark rain clouds move over Clara hill
And the old man says that the rain will bucket down
As he stands holding his horse in the Square at Millstreet town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Was Born Close To Nature
By my old home far north of here the babbling rill did flow
I was born close to Nature but of Nature little i do know
On the hedgerows of the old fields the birds welcomed the Spring
One can only look on Nature as a most amazing thing
The dark moorhen chicks from the reed bed to the river pool swim out
But their mum she calls to tell them if she sense danger about
And back into the reed bed they swim and from sight disappear
Though yet their little cheepings the passer by can hear
I was born close to Nature going back six decades ago
Near the rill from the high ground that to the river flow
Through Claraghatlea towards Liscreagh from the fields of Claramore
Far north of here as the crow fly from this far southern shore
And my wonderment of Nature it only seems to grow
And the more i learn about her the less of her i know i know.
poem by Francis Duggan
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When The Heavy Clouds Of Black Come
when those dark heavy clouds
finally come on my roof
i will not think anymore
of any lamentation
i will not think of the threats
that a heavy flood may
come and take away my house
and everything
i will change my point of view
this angle of sight
i will take sides with the way the
trees and the flowers look
at its coming
i will think about the growth of leaves
the spreading of the roots
the blooming of the buds
the fruiting of the flowers
and the ripening
and the lusciousness and
the sweetness of life
beyond the dark, heavy clouds
beyond the rain and the flood
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Rainy Day In Early June
The gray sky clouded over the rain is drizzling down
And the golf course is deserted by the river near the town
An early June day in early Winter in the Southern Hemisphere
The sun in the rain clouds hidden it is that time of year
From once you hear him singing his voice with you remain
The magpie he is piping in defiance of the rain
The gray and brown red wattlebird with a hoarseness in his cry
Is calling on a flowering gum that drips of rain nearby
To the vast expanse of dark water that crawls slowly to the sea
And in the calm dampness of the drizzling rain come the song of the pee wee
On this rainy day in early Winter it seems a long way from the Spring
When most of Nature's wildborn birds will build their nests and chirp and sing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Wave From Jimmy Sullivan
A wave from Jimmy Sullivan in Millstreet far away
A nice and spontaneous gesture that did help to make my day
From Clara road one must presume in view of Clara hill
It brought back the old memories as if time had stood still.
When we played Soccer and Gaelic football some twenty years ago
Though our old legs ageing back then nowadays are far more slow
But Jimmy looking fit and well despite the march of time
He was a quick and elusive player when he was in his prime.
One of those lucky people who has a sense of place
In Millstreet Town and Parish his is a well known face
He never will leave Millstreet in Millstreet he will stay
And in his beloved Town of Millstreet he will grow old and gray.
From life i do feel hardened and i feel too old for tears
But that wave from Jimmy Sullivan it took me back the years
To when we were young and fitter and we chased the ball around
In the Inch field at Claraghatlea back then our football ground.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Thunder Cracks In The Gray Sky
The thunder cracks in the gray sky and the rain it is bucketing down
Above the high and dry and bare paddocks by the river that flows by the town
On those paddocks that need heaps of rain it has been awhile since they were green
This countryside is looking dry 'tis as dry as it ever has been
His feathers soaked wet from the rain the magpie flutes on the blackwood tree
From it's drenched leaves the rain drips and drips by the river that flows to the sea
To the river adown the bare hill the water in rivulets run
As soon as the rain will have stopped they will quickly dry out in the sun
The Summer has been warm and dry and the long range weather forecast is for a dry Fall
An hour of heavy thunder rain of little use though better than nothing at all
For months the farmers have been praying for rain their prayers in part answered today
But the sun shines across the brown hills and the rain clouds are clearing away
And the magpie shakes his feathers dry and no rain drops left to drip from the trees
And white butterflies flitting about in the sunshine and feshening breeze.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Want to be Your Rain
Night
I'm alone
I'm awake
I'm waiting
Night sky
No moon, no stars
Dark clouds
About to rain
I want to be the rain
I want to rain
In to you
I want to be your rain
Drop by drop
Flood in to you
Fill in to you
Me the rain, my hope
I Will Take You Home To Millstreet
I will take you home to Millstreet when the may is in her bloom
And the green meads cloked with wildflowers scent of nature's sweet perfume
And the dark winged barn swallows white unders and throat rust brown
Wheel above the lush green pastures bordering Millstreet's country town.
I will take you home to Millstreet to the town by Clara hill
When the dipper sings her sweetest on green bank of babbling rill
And the male snipe late at evening with his wings make goat like sound
As above the silent rush fields he goes flying around and round
I will take you home to Millstreet when soft grass growing breezes blow
And relive again the old days with old friends I used to know
And give a call into the Bush Bar for the dance and the sing song,
I will take you home to Millstreet if with me you'll come along.
Will you come with me my darling to green valleys far away
When the birds in leafy woodlands pipe their sweetest notes of May
To the Land I still call Homeland, to the country of my youth
Ireland, North Cork and Duhallow where my manhood first took
root.
poem by Francis Duggan
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To Alan O Connor A Young K.R.R. Fan
He was so young just fourteen years and he had one great dream
To play for Killarney Road Rovers the Millstreet soccer team
To play for Killarney Road Rovers and to prove himself a man
He loved the game, he loved his team and he was a Rovers fan.
But Alan did not get the chance to carve his own renown
In football field at Claraghatlea just west of Millstreet Town
For Rovers in the Kerry league he'll not line out to play
An angel met him going to school and carried him away..
He did not live to ripe old age to slow and fade and die
His span was brief so very brief like rose flower of July
He did not live to fulfil his dream for Rovers play football
God needed him in Paradise and God know best of all.
But Alan will be still around when Rovers come to play
His ghost will be there watching them in field at Claraghatlea
And Rovers fans will talk about their star who would have been
The lad an angel took from Millstreet Town when he was just fourteen.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Valor is abraded
Soldier of oddities, autumnal fog
aborning valor, confer to overfly
recalling his home, in misty bog
counting raindrops, of a gray sky..
Valor is abraded, functions a log,
his red diluted, in drizzle complies
Maiden of oddities, autumnal rain,
recalls his dark uniform, and rank,
he smiled departing, in dark train,
acclaiming prowess, his eyes sunk..
Rain drops fall from skies above,
adorning a smile, clouds to assay,
he stares in solitude, a courtly love,
her sweet glance, upon their quay..
Friendly raindrops. of a gray sky,
form splendid, in clouds ascends,
staring at cumulus, a mizzle nigh,
sweetly waving, amid his friends..
Honor is abraded, beckons away,
his crimson diluted, in rain amends.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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February Rain
To be the mud, the bog, the mire;
To soak the bones in February –
Eons from the autumn shower–
Even from a summer berry!
Sparrows chirp a desperate call,
Darting questions at the cows –
Oblivious to the dousing squall, they
Churn the sludge with pastern ploughs.
The crying air was lost in rhythm:
Drums incessant in the drops;
Not a chance for rainbow prism –
Even if the hammering stops!
Metallic chills entrap machines –
Tractors hushed within the shed.
Inside the house, a full cuisine
To bless with mead – and little said!
But out across the tiring field,
A sodden fox is hunting down
His prey of sorts – but nil of yield;
Perhaps he’ll starve; perhaps he’ll drown.
Still the clouds are hammering,
Hammering home their dreary aim –
A chatterbox in constant yammering,
Drenching all to make a claim.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Rain
Billy said this town is dying,
it's dying just to be like me.
He was fighting everything in sight,
died when he was 23.
I used to meet him down at his cafe,
he had one eye on the door
and the other on the writing on the wall.
He'd get restless and angry and we'd all laugh
'cause we weren't really scared,
we was his friends, he wouldn't hurt us at all
And all he'd say was rain, rain, rain
rain, rain, rain,
rain, rain, rain,
rain, rain, rain.
We gotta leave this town.
And Glover was a dancer,
imitating Eddie Cochran by the jukebox.
In the corner of the room
'till he was lost.
Barry 'n me, we used to escape, playing I Go Ape
wearing Italian clothes drinking cider talking in the rain
Hey babe, come over here, let me buy you a beer, what's your name,
she said "Boy, it doesn't really matter, don't you see?
You ain't what I want, you ain't what I need,
you ain't what I fancy, you ain't what I dream of 'n I'd silently leave
?? you're ugly.
Rain, rain, rain,
rain, rain, rain,
rain, rain, rain,
rain, rain, rain.
I gotta leave this place.
My history is a cop-out
Somewhere in the dark I got scared 'cause I knew I was gonna loose.
You know that feeling you get in your guts, all that frustration when you know
you're going nuts.
You gotta make a move.
There was Billy and Glover and Pacer and Taylor and Valerie and Barry
I remember what he said about that town.
He said "I went to London once, came back,
wiped the tears from my eyes, looked out the window,
and it was still pouring down,
more of that rain, rain, rain,
rain, rain, rain,
rain, rain, rain,
rain, rain, rain."
I'm gonna get a train,-a
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Though I've Done My Share Of Travel
Though I've done my share of travel I don't have much to show of Worldly gain
And 'tis been awhile and many Seasons since I've seen old Clara in the rain
And the fog crawl down the mountain on days cold enough to snow
And Finnow swollen by stormwater through the old fields bank high flow.
Though I've done my share of travel I cannot boast of Worldly success
And the judgemental social judges I have failed to impress
But worse for me than not knowing wealth and fame as I did crave for renown
Is to know I'd be a stranger now in Millstreet my Hometown.
I've done my share of travel beyond Duhallow's countryside
And I've mixed with many races people from places far and wide
And they still talk of their old Homelands many miles beyond the sea
The nostalgia for their old Hometowns in them as much as me.
For my travels and my years of life can't say I have much to show
And what success feels like I must admit I am not one who does know
And it has been more than twenty years since I've seen Finnow in flood of brown
Bank high flowing in the old fields just west of Millstreet Town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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An August Morning At Upper Gully
The smoke from the chimneys curled down in the sky
And it's colder and wetter than 'twas in July
And fog o'er the forest a blanket of gray
And darkening rain clouds more showers on the way.
The currawongs calling the dark birds of rain
And into the station roars the city bound train
And cars on the highway racing to and fro
And down the high woodlands the chilly winds blow.
At 7 a.m. and the temperatures low
And it's cold in upper Gully cold enough to snow
Yet on this bleak morning great beauty i see
Bright yellow flowers blooming on the wattle tree.
Their loud cackling laughter one could not mistake
And they call through the morning just after daybreak
On the higher branches of old mountain gray
The kookaburras herald a cold Winter's day.
Three weeks left in August and Spring is so near
On this perhaps the coldest day of the year
And dark rain clouds gather in bleak morning sky
And it's colder and wetter than 'twas in July.
poem by Francis Duggan
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What if it rains?
A farmer sows the seed
Even if he doesn't know whether it will rain or not
He waits for the rain,
Patiently hoping that the clouds will come
That the rain will come
What if it doesn't rain?
It is painful to wait for the dark without clouds
You never know whether you should continue waiting or not
As the dark approaches without the cloud,
You can't help but ask yourself one question,
What if it doesn't rain?
What if it rains?
What if the seed becomes a tree?
What if the fruit grows and the birds build nests
What if the cooing of doves is heard in the land?
The dark is without clouds
But the farmer continues waiting
Hoping it will rain
If it does not rain
The seed will eventually die but the farmer will not
poem by Philani Zincume
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On Receiving A Letter From Marie
I wrote to the Sullivan family on the death of family member Catherine it seemed for me the proper thing to do
They were my friends and neighbours when I lived in Millstreet and to our old friends we must remain true
I was not expecting a letter in return and it came as a big surprise to me
When I received a letter from Catherine's elder sister Marie she now is Mrs Cregan from Tralee.
Marie from Claraghatlea one I remember her shiny wavy hair was chestnut brown
A cheerful and a very friendly person one of the nicest west of Millstreet Town
A warm hearted and a charming lady she always greeted with a big smile and hello
And hearing from her in her time of sorrow brought back the memories of long ago.
When she and Catherine and their younger brother James were going to school in Millstreet all three I recall were younger than I
Those were the happiest days that I remember but on looking back the years just seemed to fly
And our youthful Seasons for us went too quickly and the lust for wander carried us away
From Duhallow and the meadows west of Millstreet where in Summer weather we made cocks of hay.
She told me in her letter how she grieves for her sister Catherine they always were a close knit family
Our crosses to bear can sometimes prove quite heavy and how sad so very sad this life can be?
But time as we know is the greatest healer and though the pain of loss to heal may seem quite slow
As time goes by from her grief she will recover and her ache of loss from her eventually will go.
A surprise letter from Marie for to thank me for sympathy in writing I'd expressed at a family loss
The passing of Catherine at a young age tragic and on the family such a heavy cross
For Catherine her suffering is over though she did not live on to grow old and gray
And for Marie grieving for her beloved sister the ache of loss in time will fade away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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