Aine MacAodha - Poetry and Lens

Draiocht ~ a poem

2012-02-07T22:28:00.000Z

~ Oak Lake ~

Draiocht

Magic happens in the cool waters of healing wells
making the journey under clay; to offer up
cures within its life force.

I’ve seen it as winter blends its end of days
into the arrival of spring. On mountains
and boundaried fields as morning mist
vanishes.

Within myself when i forget the world a while
do nothing except listen to the order of things
or stare into space.

Within the lunar cycles when moon phases
stir the spirit in an ancient way; as it passes
on its journey.

Its there too on the faces of new born babies;
reddened from the delicate path taken
from womb to world, dark to light.

First published in Pirene's Fountain.

Luna ~ A poem

2011-12-08T22:27:00.001Z

Luna

Losing shadows that follow

from these troubled acres

is hard going at times.

When its those same shadows

you seek to understand

what it all came down to.

Three in the morning brings relief;

nature is more calmer and cools

to a creaking lullaby.

Some birds sleep sound.

The urban ones

blether through the night.

The moon solemnly gives orders

to orchestrate the night crawlers

on missions. She casts shadows

in dimly lit corners of the globe.

Shell never be the sun,

blitzing the crops, warming

the shadows.

But shell always be the catalyst,

calling you back to the past.

First published on Argotistonline ~ http://www.argotistonline.co.uk/MacAodha%20poems.htm

Denied

2011-10-23T21:24:00.001+01:00

In memory of the family of babies children and adults who are buried in The Bog Meadows area of Miltown Cemetery and throughout the island of Ireland and also to the works of Toni Maguire Queens university Archaeologist, and also thanks to the following pages for the work the do for Cillini.

https://www.facebook.com/irishcillin,

http://celticburialrites.blogspot.com/

Denied

Sister Monica had a special box

sat on her wooden desk beside her cane

her roll book, rosaries and bible.

Collections for the little mites

limbo babies

pagan babies

lost souls

the unbaptised

Nothing more to be said.

At age six we prayed hard for the babies

nameless and godless and without

questioning the word of God

or Mother Monica we felt loss.

I held an image of a lost soul in my mind

carried it with me into secondary school.

In childhood overheard muttered prayers

A grandmother weeping

a trail of tears when thought un-noticed.

Visits to ancient church ruins

flowers laid by the old stones

prayers said while watching the invisible

blow leaves around the ruins.

Babies denied recognition

Buried on the outer edge of their parish churches

Babies who had no place in heaven.

Their sin, still born, unbaptised at the time of death.

Parents lost in the mire of faith, grieved alone.

Under the landscapes of boundaries

and fields many mass graves lie denied.

For them I mourn…

Aine Mac Aodha - Poetry & Lens: Lughnasadh, Lúnasa; Lammas.

2011-08-03T21:19:00.000+01:00

Aine Mac Aodha - Poetry & Lens: Lughnasadh, Lúnasa; Lammas.: "As Lúnasa ; Lughnasadh, Lammas celebrated in August I got to thinking of my late parents who never missed the Ould lammas Fair in Ballyca..."

Haiku~poetography

2011-07-29T22:25:00.001+01:00

Haiku, a photo by Aine MacAodha on Flickr.

Haiku/poetography
by Aine MacAodha (c)2011

poetography

2011-07-29T22:18:00.001+01:00

Photography, a photo by Aine MacAodha on Flickr.

Poem ~ Regeneration

2011-07-23T23:17:00.000+01:00

This is a poem I wrote a few years ago and along with others I will put them on this blog.

Re-generation

Walking along market street

tracing my eyes over the stout

emulsion buildings, filled with glass

reflecting the modern footpaths

horrors of the past send shivers

up and down my spine.

I do grieve, for the old town

corner shops and worn faces replaced by

glossed faced superstores, bidding for custom

offering self assemble goods at 50% off.

Along Bridge Street, greasy Jim’s is now

Speedy Frys fast food outlet

Mc Dowel Butchers, chopped into a

coffee bar full of Lattés and tortilla wraps

frequented by suited customers

as orderly as their laptops.

The family chemist were Sue knew as much as the doctor

and almost as much as the weekly news,

has re-opened as A Drug Store, everyone wears white

and plays store detective.

The factory remains still

In desperate need of a refill

machines fazed as did lives when the hammer fell

And the golden gates closed.

Teenagers gorge on modified burgers

In pricey coloured boxes.

part of me surrounded by

permanent pouts and rare chit-chat.

Re-generation they call it.

Aine MacAodha's Books and Publications Spotlight

2011-06-25T19:47:00.000+01:00

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/ainemacaodha

Recent publications.
The Glasgow Review,Celtic Myth Podshow, The Toronto Quarterly, soylesipoetrymagazine, Debris Magazine and many Anthologies both in the Uk, USA and Ireland. Pirene's Fountain, New Belfast Arts Sculpture, Poetry Now, Citizen 32, Oasis, The Herald, Forward press anthology, New Generation Defining Itself, Peterloo Poets, Whispers from the Hedgegrows, Argotist Online, Arabesque Review, Luciole Press, Malibu Arts Review, Shamrock Haiku Journal, Haiku Ireland, Faces of the Goddess, Red Pulp Underground, Edit Red and ABC Tales, work also translated into Turkish.

A look back to the past~

2011-06-08T20:06:00.059+01:00

I would like to share a few photos of ancient sites found in County Tyrone that I took on my travels; the first few are of Beagmore Stone circles located between Omagh and Cookstown and near the An Creggan visitors centre. The circles were unearthed during the seasonal turf or peat cutting in the 1940's period and to the farmers may have looked like a heap of old stones. The seven stone circles and three cairns date back to 2600bc, used for burials or a gathering place. Very well kept and easily got to with clear signposts along the route.
Beagmore ~ Moor of the Birches~

Aghascrebagh Ogham Stone and standing stone.

Found along the same route as the Stone Circles in the town land of Greencastle and as luck has it both in the same field, a bit more trickier to get to, climb a few fences and briars and if you don't mind the odd cow curiously snooping about, it's a site to see. The Ogham stone is marked with lines and notches, the first form of writing, these stones are dated around 500 bc.

Creggandevesky Court Tomb

Again along the same route and around two miles from the An Creggan visitors centre on the main Omagh to Cookstown road...
During he dig remains of 21 people were found to be buried in this chamber which is very large and well preserved. Dated 4000 years of age. Creggandevesky (the Stony Place of Black Water). Court tombs are rectangular burial chambers and you can clearly see the dry stone wall work, very creative for early man.~

New work in latest issue of Pirene's Fountain

2011-04-22T22:22:00.000+01:00

From the Editors page at Pirene's Fountain ~
http://www.pirenesfountain.com/

I am delight to have 4 Haiku and a poem published in this issue of Pirene's Fountain. Guest editor for the Japanese Short Forms is Milinda B Hipple.

' Melinda B Hipple is an award-winning artist, photographer and writer. Her current projects include creating concept art for the feature film Black Riders in pre-production and work-shopping her novel Hotel Toledo into a feature film script. Some of her published works have appeared in Hillock, Prune Juice, Haijinx, Notes from the Gean, Tinywords and Linx, and she is a regular contributor to Pirene’s Fountain. She was a past editor and columnist for Up the Creek News, and from its second issue has been haiga editor and web master for Notes from the Gean.'

Always a fantastic array of poets writers and artists, please take time to have a good read over the holiday period.

Links to my poem and Haiku,

http://www.pirenesfountain.com/ci/macaodha.html

http://www.pirenesfountain.com/folios/jsf.html

My new poetry book.

2011-03-20T20:59:00.000Z

Link to my new book.

This is my second book of poetry titled, 'Guth An Anam~ Voice of the Soul'
I am inspired by the Irish landscape and by poets Seamus Heaney, John Montague, Rumi, Basho and many of the modern poets today.

From ~'Our stories' 'Guth An Anam~ Voice of the Soul'

"We carry them on our faces like some visible vail or invisible back pack that travels with us from pillar to post. Staving ahead; making room for a few more on the journey. We hold them in our souls, like voices of the soul."

Some of my publishing credits for this book are,

World Haiku Review, Vol. 6, Issue 3, Enniscorthy Echo, Peony Moon, The Glasgow Review, Celtic Myth Podshow, The Toronto Quarterly, Issue 1&2 of soylesi poetry magazine, Debris Magazine, Pirene's Fountain, Essays and poetry at Luciole Press, Shamrock Haiku Journal, Interviewed by poet and broadcaster Mike Marcellino on blog talk radio and read a few poems. Her work is also translated into Turkish Part of The Conversation International Poetry Project.

Imbolc A poem Feb 1s ~ First day of spring stirring~

2011-02-01T00:05:00.000Z

Imbolc is a feast dedicated to the Goddess in her maiden aspect, in her guise as Brigid, Bridget, Bride, Brighid, Brigit or Brig - goddess of learning, poetry, prophesying, craftmanship, agriculture and healing. Imbolc is considered a traditional healing time and it is a good time to consider ways to improve your health.

A link for Imbolc traditions
http://www.adf.org/rituals/celtic/imbolc/imbolc-traditions.html

Red evening sky in Omagh a few days ago.

2011-01-26T00:03:00.001Z

Red evening sky.....Close the door of words that the window of the heart may open.~ Rumi~
Originally uploaded by Aine MacAodha

Red evening sky.....

Close the door of words that the window of the heart may open.~ Rumi~

Give up to grace. The ocean takes care of each wave 'til it gets to shore. You need more help than you know."~Rumi~

2011-01-26T00:02:00.001Z

Give up to grace. The ocean takes care of each wave 'til it gets to shore. You need more help than you know."~Rumi~
Originally uploaded by Aine MacAodha

Give up to grace. The ocean takes care of each wave 'til it gets to shore. You need more help than you know."~Rumi~

Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people." W. B. Yeats

2011-01-26T00:00:00.001Z

Think like a wise man but communicate in the language of the people." W. B. Yeats
Originally uploaded by Aine MacAodha

Memories~ in memory~Mum

2011-01-11T22:57:00.000Z

Thought of this poem first published in TTQ as I was re- poting the plants and getting them ready for outdoors and Springs arrival. Mother had a thing for Geraniums and I seem to have inherited it; along with hedges and borders! :)

~Memories~

I hear her voice

in the minds eye

as I re-pot the Geraniums.

“Keep them by the window

they’ll get more light

and water sparingly in winter”

It’s funny how a flower or

the faint smell of something

familiar ignites a memory.

Like a song even, that escapes

at the right time from a car radio

just as you pass,

can stop you in your tracks, combing

back a time of instant love, perhaps

a first love that had vanished.

Messages are found all around us

if only we’d take the time to listen.

Our lives so busy.

Learning to be still is a skill, quiet the mind

once in a while, the messages will come;

from the most unlikely places.

(First published in 'The toronto Qarterly)

Pirene's Fountain

2011-01-05T22:41:00.000Z

Have been reading over the latest issue of Pirene's Fountain and noticed I didn't blog the link to this. I am honoured to be among it's writers and artists. The theme for this issue was music. Thanks all at PF!!

October 2010, Volume 3 : Issue 8

http://www.pirenesfountain.com/current_issue/macaodha.html

Best wishes for 2012

2010-12-31T21:40:00.000Z

'Athblian shona duit
Happy new year to you'

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you all for following my blogs and tweets and for your encouragement and comments on my work, I would like to thank, Ami of Pirene's Fountain, Jeff Side of Argotist online and Karen Bowles Luciole press for their friendship over the years as I have journied in my writing.

Many thanks also to friends on Facebook some old and new, I hope each and every one of you will have all that you hope for over the comming year, peace and blessings to all, Gra, Aine

My daughter Penny and Hubby Mark and Grandson Caleb.

Penny and grandson Caleb, first christmas, so cute!

Recent snow pics from Omagh

2010-12-06T22:19:00.000Z

Some beautiful trees covered in snow, I love the way the snow looks on them,

That age~ Poem

2010-12-02T22:50:00.000Z

Greencastle Oham stone.

That age

I think I’ve reached it:

this middle ground in life.

Crows feet emerge without

negotiation; bunches of

greying hair hover like

mist on the October hedge.

My offspring have fled the

roost, making their own now.

Wasn’t easy being Ma and Da.

I think of the failed mixed

marriage, the 80’s being a

time of change—

fusing bodhran and lambeg

was no easy task.

I’m beginning to resemble

my mother. Her frown and

pondering nature, her hand on

hip, stares out to the horizon …

my father’s need for the headlines

…

I stand still in a changing field,

like the Ogam stones of Tyrone,

grey and pointing skyward.

There are many tracks before me,

all leading down some road.

Morning pains subside in

the summer heat, like the

creaking wood of the stairs.

I think I’ve reached it:

endured the dark nights of the

soul.

What now?

My poem in Enniscorthy Echo

2010-11-17T21:04:00.000Z

Scalderverse •

Enniscorthy, Co. Wexford is currently celebrating the 1500th anniversary of its foundation in 510AD. As part of the anniversary celebrations, local newspaper the Enniscorthy Echo will feature a weekly poetry column, entitled Scalderverse.

I was delighted that my poem 'Heirlooms' has been picked for publication in the Enniscorthy Echo now celebrating it's 1500th anniversary.
My mother now deceased was Mary Sullivan and lived in a small row of houses at Vinegar Hill before moving to Wexford town and then North. At a young age I read through her old Irish ballad books that she had collected; many began as poems which started stirring poetry in myself. This poem was inspired by a Willow patterned plate she recieved from her mother I now have it and it sits pride of place, so it thrilled me no end to have this published in her home town newspaper.

Heirlooms

If willow patterned plates could talk

the stories they would hold

given from mother to mother

words ingrained on the soul.

It would carry tears of an uprising

from the home at Vinegar Hill

‘Basket women’ some called them

mopping their men’s blood spill.

They too became fighting women

took all sorts to the men in the fields

hidden in wicker baskets

on the bars of their bicycle wheels.

It sits with friends in the hallway

the pattern now faded to grey

almost a century come Easter

with a life time of tales to convey.

http://pjnolan.blogspot.com/2010/06/enniscorthy-1500-scalderverse.html

Author of the Month

2010-11-03T14:51:00.000Z

http://www.derryplayhousewriters.org/index.php

With thank to the writers and especially Margie Bernard, Author of 'Daughter of Derry' who is the Editor and facilitator at Derry Playhouse Writers group for selecting me for writer of the Month.

It was at the Playhouse Theatre back in 2000 that the group was officially formed as a 'writers group' and has recently celebrated it's tenth year and is still going strong. It was a real eye opener (in a good way!) for a country girl like myself but one I will treasure as this was the beginning of my journey into serious writing, honing the craft and meeting other writers each with their own voice and gift.

The Playhouse offered a variety of Creative Writing Masterclasses with theatre director David Gothard and Playwright Dave Duggan, 'Dance Lexy Dance' to name just a couple and we also completed a Eurocats community Arts certificate with the Playhouse and Omagh's plain speaking community group.

The Derry Playhouse Writers meet from 1-4pm every wednesday and have done from it's beginning, a great space to get the creative juices flowing.

November 2009, the Playhouse Theatre celebrated its official re-opening after an extensive renovation. http://www.derryplayhouse.co.uk/

Please click on the links and have a look around at the writers site and find out about the other writers and their works; you won't be disappointed,

Aine x

Poem for 7th anniversary of my Nephew Barry lost to suicide 7 years ago today

2010-10-27T18:08:00.001+01:00

As this is my nephew Barrys death anniversary, he lost his young lift to suicide 7 years ago today. I would like to dedicated this poem to him and all the others who lost their young in this way, please keep prayers in your thoughts for them and their families as their grief is awful for them, why? is their biggest concern, Many left no notes and this leaves the families distraught as even a note would have consouled at that time. Thanks, Gra, Aine.

Thoughts of you
IM of Barry

It’s harder to fill spaces at night when
day has dimmed behind the horizon.
It’s a time when cloaks fall to a close
around rural towns.
I think of my nephew whose ‘McLean’s grin

I see in all the young lads trudging the streets,

looking for answers, yet met with walls.

with little outlet other than

football or boxing to hone

those rough edges.

I imagine he fell into himself

his fledging mind unable to cope

with life’s offerings of history,

and status.

The papers today
speak no more of war in the North
but of teenagers calling time on life.

Aine Mac Aodha (c) 2003

Recent residency at The Tyrone Guthrie Centre

2010-09-29T15:22:00.001+01:00

My recent residency/writers retreat at The Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Newbliss county Monahan was in June when I spent just four blissful days but wasn't my first time at Annaghmakerrig; affectionly known as the big house. My first time there was due to Omagh District Council offering me the Tyrone Guthrie bursary back in 2000 and it was my first time to be among such a diverse group of talented artists. I first came to know of Annaghmakerrig by a good friend and fellow Derry Playhouse writer member Bridie Canning (RIP) who told me to look up and read about this eden away from all the stresses of life and to consentrate on my writing which was difficult to do at home with then three teenagers and working part time and newly divorced; so I relished every minite of the two week residency. Since then I have tried to get back at least once a year. The first time there I put together my first book of poems titled, Where the Three rivers meet.

The big house

Sir Tyrone Guthrie bequeathed his family home and estate to the State with the proviso that it be used for the benefit of artists. It was an inspired decision and one that has positively reshaped the cultural landscape of Ireland forever.

My room was very comfortable with a writing desk overlooking the lake, a large window that opened out wide so that I felt I was out of doors, a large fireplace with pictures of the Guthrie family and every morning early I would see a hare or a deer sauntering through the shrubbery, thats the thing, you sit down to write and one is distracted too by the beauty of the lake as the misty rain often starts at the far edge of the lake and takes it's time before reaching the window. A full bookcase with every poet one could think of there at my disposal to read, and read I did, often late into the night with no sounds except the creaking of the old floors cooling down. No TV, phones or radios, complete peace. I was thankfull for the time to gather another collection and get it into some order before publishing it although there is still editing to be done at least the bones are there.

Mrs Warbrigg. She was a companion to Lady Guthrie, stories of her roaming the corridors made me weary at first, I stayed in her room at the top of the house once and every creak I heard I swore it was her, but no, it was just the sound of a cooling floor, I think....

Tyrone Guthrie bust.

The garden beautifully kept by Geraldine Sheerin the Organic Gardener, just to wander through the garden and get the wave of various herbs and plants assalt the nostrils was uplifting. The Chefs' would serve the platters of leaves and herbs with freshly baked bread all an art in itself. The only stipulation was when the gong rang out at 7pm all the artists would sit down together for dinner and a chat, often someone would start a song or read a few paragraphs from their works. Most of the day was your own to do your work, such a serene place surrounded by a forest and a lake it was easy to relax and write, draw or sculpt or just ponder on your next creative venture.

The beautiful garden

A view out to the forest and lake.

Thanks to all the staff including,

Patricia Donlon Director (resident)

Mary Clerkin Finance Officer

Ingrid Adams Resources Manager

for their warmth of welcome.

http://tyroneguthrie.ie/artists.html

Annaghmakerrig 2002

The big house greets with an air of mystery,

petitioning to the gods a poem or song

to touch all our yesterdays.

The lake pretends to scowl at night and

wraps the waiting horizon in thought.

The ruthless breeze is laden with insight.

Songs find their way through the air.

The hearth inherits the fallen spruce,

whilst artists gather their cares.

Spoken signals gather like crochet,

fermenting works that ooze out in dreams,

and filter into daylight

masterpieces.

(c) Aine Mac Aodha

The big house as evening falls.

The lake

Autumn Equinox, Poem and Photography.

2010-09-21T23:24:00.000+01:00

Aine Mac Aodha - Poetry & Lens: St Patrick's Well & Magherakeel Monastic Site

2010-09-20T22:58:00.000+01:00

Aine Mac Aodha - Poetry & Lens: St Patrick's Well & Magherakeel Monastic Site: " On a recent visit to Castlederg in County Tyrone I stopped at the small village of Killeter (Coill Íochtair meaning 'lower wood') which l..."

St Patrick's Well & Magherakeel Monastic Site

2010-09-20T22:49:00.000+01:00

On a recent visit to Castlederg in County Tyrone I stopped at the small village of Killeter (Coill Íochtair meaning "lower wood") which lies along the pilgrim trail leading to Lough Derg (St. Patrick's Purgatory) St. Patrick stopped at this well to quench his thirst before the walk to Lough Derg. So before winter gets its grip on the land I wanted to visit St. Patrick's well, locally know as Tober Patrick. Surrounded by beautiful country side. Fairly nearby is Magherakeel Monastic Site.

The Sperrin landscape has some eye-catching and ancient spots off the beaten track and I have visited many of them although, to be fair many of these are difficult to locate and signposts are often scarce, this was easy enough to find once out of the Castlederg area; it was signposted.

St. Patrick's Well

New pillars and entrance gate.

St. Patrick's statue.

‘The Plain of the Church’ or Magherakeel Monastic Site, (6th-century). A small piece of the wall remains of what was St. Caireall’s Church named after the founder or local patron saint. The local primary school in Castlederg is also named after the saint. Magherakeel graveyard stands near the foundations of the original Catholic parish church, St. Caireall's, which was destroyed in the early
1600s during the Plantation.

On researching I could not find out much about this celtic Saint although it could be, (Saint Kerrill aka Caireall mac Curnain who was a Christian missionary in what is now east County Galway, alive in the mid-to-late 5th century, not real sure. Below at the shots.

Magherakeel Monastic Site

A small piece of the wall remains of what was St. Caireall’s Church

The graveyard with beautiful old headstones.

Add caption

Lovely old stones.

Hope you enjoyed, Aine xx

Magpie poem

2010-09-01T21:15:00.001+01:00

The Magpie

Two tone thieves gather like senators

or tenors, slightly tipping as if heavy bellied.

Green and purple smudged feathers glint

as the sunlight catches them.

They chatter on the trapeze of a fairy thorn.

Ever vigilant, a salmons glance towards glinting

treasures, presumed below in suburbs.

They come, silent now, a pilots precision

gliding towards the gold milk tops

shining like fools gold on the door step,

cute enough, they scan the house for noise,

I stand; still as an Oak tree.

Carefully they pluck the lid

lap up the cream stash the lids in their beaks

and make off for the hill top again.

Still, I love these birds beautiful to look at and very noisey at times.

Lughnasadh, Lúnasa; Lammas.

2010-09-01T00:07:00.001+01:00

As Lúnasa; Lughnasadh, Lammas celebrated in August I got to thinking of my late parents who never missed the Ould lammas Fair in Ballycastle. They'd look forward to this from June and often talked about the sights they'd seen from Horses, musicians and bedding to tools being sold. It was a sort of pilgrimage especially for my mother. When they would return they'd often bring Yellow man a honeycomb rock or type of toffee and dulse; seaweed which I disliked but enjoyed the Yellow Man, very sweet made with syrup and brown sugar although my father when in the humour would make us toffee and fudge and I liked it better. I attended a writers weekend back in 2000 in Knocklayde near Ballycastle a wonderful refreshing place with breath taking hills and valleys. Never been to the Lammas Fair though. I have great memories and stories told my my ould fellagh.

Lammas fair in Ballycastle is one of the oldest in Ireland at over three hundred years old and still going strong. from the last Monday and Tuesday of August. It is associated with the Lammas harvest festival.
A ballad written by local shopkeeper and bog-oak carver John Henry MacAuley enhanced the local fame of the fair. MacAuley was also a well known fiddler, but died in 1937 before his song became famous.

~The Ould Lammas Fair~

by John Henry MacAuley

At the Ould Lammas Fair in Ballycastle long ago

I met a pretty colleen who set me heart a-glow

She was smiling at her daddy buying lambs from Paddy Roe

At the Ould Lammas Fair in Ballycastle-O!

Sure I seen her home that night

When the moon was shining bright

From the ould Lammas Fair in Ballycastle-O!

Chorus

At the Ould Lammas Fair boys were you ever there

Were you ever at the Fair In Ballycastle-O?

Did you treat your Mary Ann

To some Dulse and Yellow Man

At the Ould Lammas Fair in Ballycastle-O!

In Flander's fields afar while resting from the War

We drank Bon Sante to the Flemish lassies O!

But the scene that haunts my memory is kissing Mary Ann

Her pouting lips all sticky from eating Yellow Man

As we passed the silver Margy and we strolled along the strand

From the Ould Lammas Fair in Ballycastle-O!

Chorus

There's a neat little cabin on the slopes of fair Knocklayde

It's lit by love and sunshine where the heather honey's made

With the bees ever humming and the children's joyous call

Resounds across the valley as the shadows fall

Sure I take my fiddle down and my Mary smiling there

Brings back a happy mem'ry of the Lammas Fair

Chorus*

Lughnasadh; Celtic harvest festival, its name taken from the Celtic god Lugh. years later Lughnasadh was christianized as Lammas, the Anglo-Saxon, hlaf-mas, "Loaf-Mass,"
In rural areas, it was often remembered as "Bilberry Sunday," a day for a climb up the nearest hill and gather a few black berries; gods kitchen supplies. Bilberry Sunday on Croagh Patrick in County Mayo now known as Reek Sunday celebrates Saint Patrick.

New poems published in Poeny Moon

2010-08-31T23:46:00.001+01:00

My two poems and photographs are in Peony Moon, thanks to Editor Michelle Mc Grane xx

http://peonymoon.wordpress.com/2010/08/29/aine-macaodha-two-poems/

There are many writers on her lists and it's a great site with many links to others.

Gra
Aine

Aine Mac Aodha - Poetry & Lens: Review of Söylesi Üç Aylik Siir Dergisi / The Poet...

2010-08-12T17:50:00.000+01:00

Aine Mac Aodha - Poetry & Lens: Review of Söylesi Üç Aylik Siir Dergisi / The Poet...: "Nesrin Eruysal (editor) (2009) Söylesi Üç Aylik Siir Dergisi / The Poetry of Islands (English and Turkish Language), Solyesi Poetry Review..."

The Guest House -- Rumi

2010-08-12T01:00:00.000+01:00

The Guest House -- Rumi

Aine Mac Aodha - Poetry & Lens: My book on Amazon.com

2010-08-04T23:59:00.000+01:00

Aine Mac Aodha - Poetry & Lens: My book on Amazon.com: "My book on Amazon.com A bit of shameless promotion i'm afraid!! Above is my book, 'Where the three rivers meet' now available on Amazon.co..."

St. Mary’s Church of Magheraculmoney Parish And famine graveyard

2010-07-08T20:54:00.001+01:00

The graveyard surrounding ST. Mary’s Church at Ardess, near Kesh in County Fermanagh is a ancient pre-plantation graveyard and in a survey it is estimated that there is a total of 433 marked grave headstones, flat slabs and crosses. The oldest visible date is 1679 of both Catholic and Protestant. Some wonderful old celtic crosses and a stump of a tree where the hangings took place excuted after the Maguire rebellion 1594. It is difficult to find so ask a local in the nearest town of Kesh and they will give your directions. A facinating place to visit.

http://www.triskelle.eu/history/nineyearswar.php

St Mary's Old church Ardess.

The place of the Hanging Tree

Famine Pit

Running right across and dividing the pre-plantation cemetery in two is a huge fourteen foot wide trench grave. Described locally as the Famine Pit the huge long narrow sunken grave of 120 feet had remained in an overgrown, unkempt state serving as a harsh visual reminder of the Great Famine period 1845 - 1850. Ardess Community Association’s immediate objective was to mark the 150th anniversary of 1847 (known as Black 47) by restoring the unmarked famine pit and creating a sensitive memorial commemorating the many forgotten famine victims from North West Fermanagh.

It is a well kept graveyard for the age of it and it's quite eery to look into the famine pit and remember the forgotten victims who mostly came from the Irvinestown and belcoo areas.

A poem I wrote four years ago called Black 47 and is published in my book, Where The Three Rivers meet' http://www.amazon.com/Aine-MacAodha/e/B003MGH3M2/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Ireland old and new photographs

2010-06-30T00:39:00.000+01:00

http://ainemacaodha.redbubble.com/works

Ami Kaye's new book and web site.

2010-06-22T21:50:00.000+01:00

Ami Kaye a friend and one of the Editors of http://pirenesfountain.com/ has a new collection of poems published, 'What Hands Can Hold ' at her beautiful web site http://www.amikaye.com/ .

Review by Karen Bowles, Publisher of Luciole Press.

Aine x

Summer solstice card from Zazzle.com

2010-06-15T01:51:00.000+01:00

Summer solstice card from Zazzle.com

Janus figures (ancient souls)

2010-06-08T00:37:00.002+01:00

Caldragh Cemetery located a few miles from Boa Island outside the town of Kesh on Lower lough Erne (County Fermanagh) is were these beauties can be found, well beauties to me. Old souls with stories to tell! I try to visit many of the ancient sites across Ireland, some well documented others off the beaten track which is better.. Although having said that it is difficult at times to locate these sites; often you need permission from the land owner and many sites are poorly signposted, so visitors from elsewhere must find it hard going to get to them. This is well signposted fortunately! Things are changing with the preservation and upkeep of these old graveyards.
The larger one is known as The Janus Figure' ( Janus literally means two-faced )which is two figures back to back, male and female. The third and smallest of them is Lusty Man' found and brought to the cemetery from the nearby island of Lusty Beg. Celtic idols as they're known have that ancient feel and pull; although many disagree as this is a christian graveyard. I have never seen Sheila-na-gig figures - however, have read much about them and the smaller of the two is a woman, I think is a Sheila-na-gig type. The Janus figures are reputed to be over 2000 years old.
http://homepage.eircom.net/~archaeology/three/sheela.htm

Gota love that face!

My book on Amazon.com

2010-05-18T20:41:00.004+01:00

My book on Amazon.com

A bit of shameless promotion i'm afraid!! Above is my book, 'Where the three rivers meet' now available on Amazon.com for $7.82

Lates issue of Pirene's Fountain up online.

2010-05-04T21:30:00.001+01:00

I spent a good part of the weekend reading the latest issue of Pirene's Fountain and have enjoyed the many poetic voices that I have read. This issues featured poets include, Dorianne Laux, Joseph Millar and J. P. Dancing Bear; who was interviewed by one of PF Editors Ami Kaye, you can read the interview here,

http://www.pirenesfountain.com/folios/dancing-interview.html

Also loved the vibrant artwork of Elisa Boughner, check her folio page. A great read all round, thanks PF!

This is issue 7 of PF and I am honoured to have had poems in several issues.

My essay at, https://luciolepress.com/Aine_MacAodha.html

2010-04-27T23:25:00.006+01:00

My essay, published in Luciole Press. edited by Karen Bowles. Go to the Luciole press link above and you will also find links to many artists and writers, including the editors page.

all copyrights belong to Aine MacAodhaCopyright 2007-2010. Luciole Press. All rights reserved.

Editor Karen Bowles

2010-04-27T23:03:00.004+01:00

Luciole Press Spring/Summer Issue 2010 is here. Please read the "Editor's Note"Share
Cover of the Spring/Summer Issue 2010.

Painting by Pär Strömberg

READ the full Editor's Note here: http://www.luciolepress.com/Editor_s_Note

There is also work form myself too.

Home Page: http://www.luciolepress.com/

Karen Bowles

Publisher

Muck, by night

2010-04-20T20:39:00.002+01:00

Muck, by night
Originally uploaded by Aine MacAodha

Lough Muck (yes that's it's name)! a few minutes walk from me, one of my favourites although not widely known. I recall swimming in it every summer in childhood, good memories walking out to the lough and getting real sunburn and burnt feet wearing only moses sandles.

Ancestral home.

2010-04-20T20:21:00.002+01:00

Ancestral home.
Originally uploaded by Aine MacAodha

Taken near Sloughen Glen just outside Omagh/Drumquin, Out of the side of a hill, amid brambles and giant ferns, a shell of a house appears with postcard views out over the Tyrone countryside,I listen to the quiet sounds of spring, and remember that the regeneration of small towns has crept nearer and nearer to the beauty spots. One day thismay well be gone.

Flowers in youth.

2010-03-21T19:33:00.000Z

Went out this morning to admire the display of youth in the Daffodils and Crocus and came on snowrops having a ball. Great weather her today in Omagh clear skies and the Mountains called but I will have to leave them for another day as my first Grandchild is due any day now and my daughter and her husband are getting nervous so I cannot ramble as I would like; for now. Exciting times :)

New poem publishes in http://soylesipoetrymagazine.com/

2010-02-08T23:54:00.003Z

Nesrin Eruysal Söyleşi Üç Aylık Şiir Dergisi

http://soylesipoetrymagazine.com/
Kenneth Rosen, Alfred Corn, Reshma Aquil, John Muckle, Immanuel Mifsud, Cem Uzungüneş, Carlos Barbarito, Koray Feyiz, Ken Fifer, Mark Cobley, Thor Stefansson, Tree Riesener, Barbara Crooker, Hedy Habra,Aine MacAodha

Edited by Nesrin Eruys

SÖYLEŞİ ÜÇ AYLIK ŞİİR DERGİSİ

WINTER 2010 VOLUME 2

MELANCHOLY AND MEMORY

You can download the issue or read online, Aine.

New Poem 'Imbolc'

2010-02-01T16:42:00.001Z

Had fun with the movie maker with this one, a poem for Imbolc, Bede, Bridgits day........ The snow is on the ground around Tyrone and the hills dusted with it, cold, but lovely to look out at; the wild birds are enjoying the feast in the garden although those crows chase the Robins, the robins are territorial and put up a brave fight. Have to get a photo of them but as soon as the door opens, the dogs out and they're off!

Tara, watching the birds!

Island Home

2010-01-14T00:15:00.001Z

Island Home

I’ve traveled very little from this island home.

My native land grounds me keeps me in contact

with the rhythms of nature, the sound of the winds,

the call of the wild birds and the dialects of its people.

Tyrone’s inland landscape of moss clad hills and flat bogs

break every now and then like an ocean wave.

Small towns and villages emerge lively and loud

against the woven landscape.

One can drive for miles across back roads criss-crossing

town lands whose names mean; stony path,

fairly coloured field or hill of midges; before

a village appears out of the hedgerows.

Fintona, Seskinore, over the mountain to

Fivemiletown. across the side road to Sixmilecross,

Carrickmore, Gortin and to Omagh again, the view

always lifts the spirit.

Gortin village is one such place, hidden within

the protective fauna of the forest and rough mossy

hills flanking the road into the village.

Fiddle music sails up from the music store.

I may not have traveled far; but this island

Home; were the ancestors have left their marks on the land;

in the form of art and awkward names,

This will take me far away in my mind at times.

Living on the Island of Ireland and the North especially has shaped my poetics as much as

its writers have. Songs, debates; dialects, myths and words all play the part; not

withstanding the landscape from inland to the coastal waters. One’s affected by the

weather, the wind loves to blast so much harder, winter seems to linger more, the seasons

don’t argue they just do their job. I don’t need the weather forecast, I just look out the

window; if there’s snow on the Sperrin Mountains, there’s sure to be snow in the valley of

Omagh town at some stage during the week ahead.

First published in http://soylesipoetrymagazine.com/download-issues/

Around the Sperrin Mountains

2010-01-09T19:38:00.000Z

I made this short video using my photographs and a small poem. All taken in and around the Sperrin Mountain region of County Tyrone.

2009-12-28T21:28:00.001Z

A few winter scenes of Omagh and one of the lakes in Gortin. Tyrone is frozen over and will be that way for the next few days; spring is on the way!

Shirley Hall's new collection of poems, 'Listen

2009-11-22T00:24:00.000Z

Latest issue of Pirene's Fountain online now

2009-11-21T23:39:00.000Z

'Ami Kaye' Pirene's Fountain Poetry Journal release

Welcome to the October 2009 issue of Pirene's Fountain! Besides some wonderful poetry and features, included are nominations for the Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize Also, from the showcase there is a link to a craft interview with Jane Hirshfield...

http://www.pirenesfountain.com/

http://www.pirenesfountain.com/current_issue.html

I'm so honoured to be among such great writers in this superb magazine.
Aine.

Review of Söylesi Üç Aylik Siir Dergisi / The Poetry of Islands

2009-11-08T17:48:00.000Z

Nesrin Eruysal (editor) (2009) Söylesi Üç Aylik Siir Dergisi / The Poetry of Islands

(English and Turkish Language), Solyesi Poetry Review. Freely downloadable from:

http://eleusinian.files.wordpress.com/2009/09/volume-11.pdf.

Recurring tropes in the poems re-animate the possibilities first articulated in Eryusal’s and

Hay’s introductions. In fact, the volume kicks off with a poem by Hay himself, translated

into Turkish by Eryusal. More generally, many of the poets draw strong analogues between

the life of the island and the body, or island life: for Dimitris Lentzis, the island and the

physical body are afloat in a sea of water and emotion; for Immanuel Mifsud, the water

becomes a metaphor for the soul and vice versa; for Aine MacAodha, the island and ‘life’

are inseparable.

Recent puplication

2009-11-02T22:47:00.001Z

Chicago

My poem 'chicago' has been recently published with The Glasgow Review.
link
http://www.glasgowreview.co.uk/ New poem published

Purchase my Ireland landscape and pagan cards below

2009-10-28T22:58:00.000Z

Purchase my Ireland cards here

Bells Bridge in Omagh,

2009-10-17T22:21:00.000+01:00

Old Societies

Rain takes on a silver sheen

thundering past the window,

encouraging the worm to rise.

Already the blackbird furrows

with his yellow beak, knowing

what lies beneath.

I think of pre-historic societies

leaving their stamp on the land in

stone circles, megalithic tombs,

standing stones and raths.

I imagine they were signposts

pointing the safest way ahead

to the nearest village; gathering

points, perhaps. Their own

creations dotted about

the landscape.

I feel a

certain kinship with them—those

who came before.

The worm: I wonder what its

aura holds? What has it come upon

whilst pushing clay,

slipping into worlds unseen?
I wish the rain to cease,

the blackbird to scarper

and the worm to live another day.

The Fiddler

2009-10-17T22:13:00.002+01:00

The Fiddler

He cosies it under the chin,

or thereabout,

like a favourite scarf

from college days.

The music already forming in

his mind’s eye.

He’s played this air a thousand times,

yet each time it surges from

a different notion.

The horsehair bow

gallops a few times in practice

for the main event.

The listeners, young and old,

heed the waltz with arms

outstretched.

He rests on the waltz.

‘Give me your hand’

The dancers glide in perfect

sway to the fiddler’s tune.

Like a shaman he leads them

to another time when music

filled the night air under stars.

His ears are on alert, watching

for one wrong beat.

The dancers care not,

they are lost in the music of the fiddler.

New calendar released in my store,

2009-10-02T15:19:00.003+01:00

Celticgirl4's Store at Zazzle

Photo cards with poetry and 2010 calendar.

Lough Muck

2009-09-28T21:56:00.001+01:00

Lough Muck near Omagh, cool place to photograph and muse over.

creative writers Network

2009-09-20T21:42:00.003+01:00

http://www.creativewritersnetwork.org/cwnabout.html

2009-09-20T21:26:00.000+01:00

Irish festivals

Our Stories (working on this)

2009-09-05T23:27:00.002+01:00

Our stories

We carry them in our souls or on our faces like some invisible back pack

they travel with us from pillar to post. Paving the way ahead; making room,

for a few more on the journey.

We lay them on the hearth of a friend or someone whom we meet by chance

our energies swap them for us, without need of speaking words.

They are carried on footsteps drifting along on the night breeze taking them

further a field.

Like a mothers knee they warm us on nights of pouring rain that’s beating

hard against the window pane.

The Early Purges ( A memoir in Progress)

2009-08-30T16:26:00.006+01:00

'This is a something my children encouraged me to write about having grown up in a town called Omagh. A memoir in progress I guess I call it for it needs much work and I haven't figured out the chapter line up. If you have taken the time to read the first pieces, many thanks for doing that; if not I'm having a carthartic fuelled time writing this. I write poetry mainly and short stories, self taught with the help of Libraries and Open University, various writing groups and encouragement from strangers who like my writing.

Omagh, the Early Purges
Chapter One
The Loretto convent primary school stands at the top of Brook Street in Omagh; a grey concrete building inside and out with high windows and heavy wooden doors; that when closed one wondered if we would ever get out. The stone steps took the life of a young girl when she fell. Always a shudder ran through me when I approached them; like she was still around somehow. Now the old school is set for demolish; sad really as regeneration cloaks the town; the old town is fading fast. The smallest street in Ireland is in Michaels Street here in Omagh. The Gael in Castle Street opened its doors in 1804 and closed 1904. The origins of Omaghs history stretches back thousands of years with a monastic Abbey founded by the Earls of Ulster, The O’Neill’s.

As a teenager walking home from St Brigits secondary school near the Gallows Hill area, I could just imagine the thieves and poor beggars that were hung there; gave me the creeps as I made my way home.
The Loretto convent primary school was where all this fascination, (for me) with the world began. In 1969 Ireland was pretty much held back from the 60’s revolution. The nuns would have none of it. According to Mother superior; most girls from the council estates were going to be nuns or house wives; hence the hemming, knitting and cookery classes topped up with rosaries and the black souls for impure thoughts and I had many.
When all the chanting and praying was going on, I took to the map of the world pasted into the side panels of the wall, under the framed pictures of past saints and scholars. All those faraway places I’d long to be rather than stuck listening to Sister Bernadette. But Bernadette had god on her side and caught me every time measuring how far it was to Australia, Egypt or Japan from Ireland, and how they lived in those countries what they ate, what games they played and weather the nuns taught them too!. I knew about Africa the trocaire box sat on Sister Bernadette’s desk and break monies were donated to the starving children, so Africa I knew a bit about.

“Idle dreamer” she’d say with pursed lips,” if you’d pay more attention to the good lord than gawping at that map, there’d be hope for you”

Sister Bernadettes words silenced the class; and me.
My punishment was to stand at the back of class with my arms held out at my side, crucifix like; for what seemed like hours. Although painful this gave me more time to reflect, on other worlds and just a teeny bit on how Jesus felt.
Looking back now in my middle age I think of the idle dreamer tag and yes, she was spot on that sister Bernadette, I do idly dream and it’s no crime against the good lord. The internet is my world map now and by just the flick of a page I can discover faraway lands, now that’s progress.

Back to the Loretto convent primary; as each day began Sister Bernadette of the blessed ladies thumped her blackthorn stick on the top of the organ for attention, she got it. A smallish sized nun with a soft Irish accent. Her jet black hair peeped out from her veil on the forehead, just enough for me to question; and never out loud always internally. I wondered what style hair she had under her dark veil; who trims it and if she used soap or shampoo to wash it. I’d question once what the father, son and Holy Ghost was about, and what and how what three in one was all about, her answer is was always; never question the word of god. That was it, along with a wrap on the knuckles with the wooden ruler.
Frozen with respect the twenty girls all nine years old got out their rosaries and stood on the chairs awaiting the blessed one to begin the hourly morning prayers. Mondays Father Finnighan came to do confessions; it seemed ages before our souls were truly cleansed and the blackness of sins whitened. Once she asked the question about the Lords Prayer,

“Such a powerful little prayer, the words are just perfect, I wonder children could you write this or re-write it”?
I began jotting down my replacement words for the prayer and I enjoyed attempting it when she abruptly announced,
“No; you see children it’s impossible”
Not for me I thought; for I was forever changing the words in mother’s ballad books to suit my own, so yes it was possible but not in the eyes of the sisters.
I was confused as to whom we should fear the devil or Sister Bernadette or Mother Superior. As a treat if we were good! Good! We were young god fearing catholic girls for gods sake how much more good to we be at 9 years of age. She’d delight us in her singing and organ playing which became more tuneful after she wet her throat from liquid in her hip flask; for medical purposes only you’ll find. She became jollier too and approachable; gathering us girls round the organ in ragtime type rhythm until Mother Superior would peep her head in the door with a scary stare towards Sister, a stare we all knew and were familiar with.

My best friend was Patsy O Donnell she like me was thin and sickly looking,
we did eat the best, we however never seemed to pile on the pounds. Mother Superior
spotted this with narrowed eyes.
Each time the bell rang ending break-time she’d called over the speaker,
‘Patsy and Ann over here’

As the other pupils set there milk bottles on the tray Mother Superior would hush us over to the un-finished liquid and make us, (for the good of our health) drink the leftovers, I can still feel the warm milk drains glugging down my throat. If that wasn’t bad enough out came the soggy sandwiches in case we go hungry when we got home, all because we were thin. Mother bless her; thanked the nuns and praised them for their kindness even though our house was well stocked with soda bread, treacle cake, and pies. Mother was a thrifty cook having served long years being a house keeper to a lord and lady that took her with them when they moved up north of Ireland from her home in Wexford. Although times were hard, she always managed a good dinner and could work wonders with rabbits and tongue.

The classroom was ornately decorated with heavy framed photos of past nuns who served as principals and saints that stared adamantly from above the Sisters chair. For recreation we got to cook and sew aprons because the late sixties meant nothing to Mother Francis or the other nuns. There’d be no sticking your head in the clouds wanting to be a writer; no; a good wife was your path. Irish dancing was a must and recital of a poem or singing at the Feis was almost a sinful act not to participate...

The War Years

2009-08-30T16:07:00.003+01:00

Chapter Two ( this is by no means finely tuned; all is a work in progress)

War years

1975 saw Patsy and I venture into secondary education in St Brigit’s and the
boys went to St. Pat’s right next to us and I’d have to concentrate on ridding myself
of impure thoughts and get used to new teachers, a new uniform, the escape from the confines of war to finding our own voice in the music of punk and rock..
What comes to mind fondly in St. Brigit’s was the yearly St. Pats dance, all year we waited for that to come along. The only time we could wear our own clothes and dance to the music, eye up the lads from the other estates and show off. The only thing that was off putting was; the nuns were at the corners of the hall watching incase we got too close to the boys, that was a bummer but we had a way round that too. We; when I say we; there was about ten of us girls and boys who met at a secret place called smokers corner in and around the gallows hill area, the only thing we got up to was a kiss and a smoke, but without the prying eyes of the nuns. Parallels and crombie jackets seemed the style and monkey boots.

The town had it’s parks, in rank order of hardness which was debatable, The Dale, Dodge City-Okane park, The DR and The Hill, Centenary and Strule all had their little groups and out of these solid groups, groups of punks and alternatives formed. Friendships and young love flourished. A new place opened in town called, ‘The drop in centre’ a place where the youth of the area could watch Top of the pops without our parents switching it off. One could play pool, listen to music and relax. My father called it, the drop in for the drop outs! And one holy lady asked my mother would it not be better for your daughter to join the Legion of Mary rather than loitering about this centre as if it was something ungodly.

No this was bliss, we could hear and see the new voices in the music industry especially from across the water in mainland Britain! Squeeze, Joe Jackson, The Pistols, The Jam, I could go on forever about how music became my friend. Not to say that Irish music hadn't it's influence, it had. I was reared on ballads and sing songs, rebel and country. Instilled in my DNA. But it wasn't a sin to be pulled in another direction. I was not reared to be broken I had my fathers strength of character and my mothers soul.

The one thing that lightened our spirits was the punk movement that came from the sex pistols; Anarchy had arrived in style in the small market town of Omagh. Patsy and I were 14 at the time and what a time we had. Safety pins were a must, ragged and ripped drainpipes and razor blade earrings and an attitude that said we had landed. We had a voice and we didn’t care a hoot what we looked like. I remember starching my hair in spikes with sugar and water, my father hit the roof. For us teenagers it was a welcome sound as we hated the show bands scene that our elder siblings loved and the three piece suits that dominated the town. All of a sudden small punk bands were created and gigs at the local show grounds led us to believe that music was here to save us from the destitution of the war years. Local band Control Zone and Stiff Little Fingers from Strabane led the way and did local venues packed with devotees including myself and patsy, we had a ball sticking up our fingers to Thatcher and the establishment, and we could be our selves not pigeon holed. It was saying to the hell with the old social order of things, of being yourself; as a person a spirit...........

I'm going underground; The Jam!!

This is some bits and pieces from the first couple of chapters,