memoir: christmas eve 1997 (in progress)

It feels like I have been neglecting this blog lately, and as I was conducting a little file-system spring cleaning I stumbled upon this snippet of work in progress...

Christmas Eve 1997

For me, Platform Five was Connolly Station. Even before I moved to Dublin, it was a fixture in the firmament of my life’s highlights, the day of a hurling match: an early morning walk to the North Station, which really was like a scene from ‘Dancing at The Crossroads’...

Well I remember as a young boy
The beginning of September
We were standing at the station
Waiting for a train.
 
There was priests and Christian Brothers
There was nuns and Reverend Mothers
There was Guards and drunks and others
But everyone was just the same
 
Well they came from Enniscorthy
From New Ross and Ferns and Gorey
There was busses from Bunclody
There was horses, carts and all

the track following the course of the Slaney, later hugging the County Wicklow coast, dramatically so as we moved further north... disembarking at Connolly... crossing the road to Graingers or The North Star for a quick pint... strolling through the north inner city... stopping to eat our packed lunch in Mountjoy Square if the weather was decent... squeezing through the narrow turnstiles... the crumbling concrete stands... the smell of piss in the toilets... the perennial optimism before the game, the perennial disappointment afterwards... and then the long trek home when it seemed like we were following a funeral cortege...

Of course, the previous year had been very different...

Damian Fitzhenry, Ger Cush, Sean Flood,
Rod Guiney , Liam Dunne,
Colm Kehoe, Billy Byrne,
Martin Storey  John O’Connor,
Tom Dempsey, George O'Connor,
Adrian Fenlon and Larry O'Gorman,
Rory McCarthy, Larry Murphy, Garry Laffan,
Eamon Scallan ,Dave Guiney ,
Declan Ruth, (A)Jim Byrne,
Shane Carley, Paul Finn,
Tom Kehoe, are the team,
and the man that dared to dream his
name was Liam Griffin
 
Seamus Kavanagh, Joe Kerns, MJ Reck
and all the rest the brave young men of 96
will be remembered with the best

but that was a very different day, and a very different story, which we will get to, eventually.

I was standing on there, waiting for the train to arrive. It was late. I stifled a yawn as a railway worker passed, and he took my seeming impatience as a query. “There is a problem with the crossing at Merrion Gates. The wind is blowing the barriers all over the place.” “It’s a fair strong wind, alright”, I offered, and with a mutual nod we parted; he went on about his business, and I went back to waiting.

The wind, after all, was the reason I was here in Connolly Station. Usually my weekend commute started in Bray, which meant the train was already full, leaving me to stand at the end of the carriage, an area constantly befouled with smokers holding their cigarettes out the window. Today, the strong wind had encouraged the management to prematurely close the call centre where I worked - the metal roof was rattling, and the noise generated by frequent gusts made our job all but impossible. So, I hopped a DART towards the city in the hope of securing a seat for the journey to Wexford.

The students that made up a sizable chunk of the usual travelling public had already adjourned to the provinces for the holidays, so that for once the grubby cement and tile platform was visible; scuff marks, grime and rain stains. The communal warmth and shelter of the crowd was missing too, and this wind carried pinpricks of icy air, bombarding the exposed faces of the hardy would-be-passengers.

- o O o -

The train arrived, an hour late, which was tardy even by Irish Rail standards. A handful of passengers disembarked, some of them wrapping scarves around their mouths and noses as they braved the elements. In a concession to the weather, we were allowed on the train while it was being prepared for the journey southward - the air was warm and still. A sole cleaner moved from carriage to carriage, paying lip service to the idea of removing the detritus of the most recent trip.

I settled in to a seat, resting my feet on the lukewarm radiator. I had a newspaper sticking out of my pocket, and a paperback in my bag, but they could wait - a comfortable nap would do for the moment.

poem: oíche nollaig na mban

In Ireland, the Feast of the Epiphany is also know as "Little Christmas", or "Women's Christmas" - in the Irish language "Nollaig Na mBan".

I remember studying this poem in school.

Oíche Nollaig Na mBan

Bhí fuinneamh sa stoirm a éalaigh aréir.
Aréir oíche Nollaig na mBan,
As gealt-teach iargúlta 'tá laistiar den ré
Is do scréach tríd an spéir chughainn 'na gealt
Gur ghíosc geataí comharsan mar ghogallach gé,
Gur bhúir abhainn slaghdánach mar tharbh,
Gur mhúchadh mo choinneal mar bhuille ar mo bhéal
A las 'na splanc obann an fhearg

Ba mhaith liom go dtiocfadh an stoirm sin féin
An oíche go mbeadsa go lag
Ag filleadh abhaile ó rince an tsaoil
Is solas an pheaca ag dul as,
Go líonfaí gach neomat le liúirigh ón spéir,
Go ndéanfaí den domhan scuaine scread,
Is ná cloisfinn an ciúnas ag gluaiseacht fám dhéin,
Ná inneall an ghluaisteáin ag stad.

Seán Ó Riordáin

Update:

I didn't have time to post my own translation this morning, but fortunately, my friend and neighbor, renowned Irish language scholar Antóin Ó Cléirigh sent me the following, which is much superior to any translation that I might have written:

The Eve of Little Christmas

There was vigour in the storm that escaped last night
Last night, the eve of Little Christmas
From a remote madhouse behind the moon
And screamed through the sky to us like a maniac
So that the neighbour's gate creaked like the gaggling of geese,
So that the snuffled river bellowed like bull,
'Til my candle was extinguished like a smack in the mouth
That ignited my anger in a sudden spark

I would like that that self-same storm would come
The night when i will be weak
Returning home from the dance of life
With the light of sin declining,
That every minute would be filled with cries from the sky,
That the world become a procession of screams,
And that I wouldn't hear the silence sneak up on me.
Or the engine of the car stopping.

poem: for what died the sons of róisín?

In the light of current events in Ireland, this piece of writing by Luke Kelly has become something of an anthem. I have underlined a couple of lines of the poem below, and repeat them here:

Will German, French or Dutch inscribe the epitaph of Emmet?
When we have sold enough of Ireland to be but strangers in it.

For what died the sons of Róisín, was it fame?
For what died the sons of Róisín, was it fame?
For what flowed Ireland's blood in rivers,
That began when Brian chased the Dane,
And did not cease nor has not ceased,
With the brave sons of '16,
For what died the sons of Róisín, was it fame?

For what died the sons of Róisín, was it greed?
For what died the sons of Róisín, was it greed?
Was it greed that drove Wolfe Tone to a paupers death in a cell of cold wet stone?
Will German, French or Dutch inscribe the epitaph of Emmet?
When we have sold enough of Ireland to be but strangers in it.
For what died the sons of Róisín, was it greed?

To whom do we owe our allegiance today?
To whom do we owe our allegiance today?
To those brave men who fought and died that Róisín live again with pride?
Her sons at home to work and sing,
Her youth to dance and make her valleys ring,
Or the faceless men who for mark and dollar,
Betray her to the highest bidder,
To whom do we owe our allegiance today?

For what suffer our patriots today?
For what suffer our patriots today?
They have a language problem, so they say,
How to write "No Trespass" must grieve their heart full sore,
We got rid of one strange language now we are faced with many, many more,
For what suffer our patriots today?

teaser: nanowrimo

A few years ago I heard of the NaNoWriMo concept - designating November as National Novel Writing Month. I'm doing the whole Movember thing too, but I'll deal with that in my other blog.

This excerpt is from my first day's work. You'll have to wait for the paperback to read the rest...

Christmas Eve 1997

For me, Platform Five was Connolly Station. Even before I moved to Dublin, it was a fixture in the firmament of my life’s highlights, the day of a hurling match: an early morning walk to the North Station, which really was like a scene from ‘Dancing at The Crossroads’...

Well I remember as a young boy
The beginning of September
We were standing at the station
Waiting for a train.
 
There was priests and Christian Brothers
There was nuns and Reverend Mothers
There was Guards and drunks and others
But everyone was just the same
 
Well they came from Enniscorthy
From New Ross and Ferns and Gorey
There was busses from Bunclody
There was horses, carts and all

the track following the course of the Slaney, later hugging the County Wicklow coast, dramatically so as we moved further north... disembarking at Connolly... crossing the road to Graingers or The North Star for a quick pint... strolling through the north inner city... stopping to eat our packed lunch in Mountjoy Square if the weather was decent... squeezing through the narrow turnstiles... the crumbling concrete stands... the smell of piss in the toilets... the perennial optimism before the game, the perennial disappointment afterwards... and then the long trek home when it seemed like we were following a funeral cortege...

Of course, the previous year had been very different...

Damian Fitzhenry, Ger Cush, Sean Flood,
Rod Guiney , Liam Dunne,
Colm Kehoe, Billy Byrne,
Martin Storey  John O’Connor,
Tom Dempsey, George O'Connor,
Adrian Fenlon and Larry O'Gorman,
Rory McCarthy, Larry Murphy, Garry Laffan,
Eamon Scallan ,Dave Guiney ,
Declan Ruth, (A)Jim Byrne,
Shane Carley, Paul Finn,
Tom Kehoe, are the team,
and the man that dared to dream his
name was Liam Griffin
 
Seamus Kavanagh, Joe Kerns, MJ Reck
and all the rest the brave young men of 96
will be remembered with the best

but that was a very different day, and a very different story, which we will get to, eventually.

I was standing on there, waiting for the train to arrive. It was late. I stifled a yawn as a railway worker passed, and he took my seeming impatience as a query. “There is a problem with the crossing at Merrion Gates. The wind is blowing the barriers all over the place.” “It’s a fair strong wind, alright”, I offered, and with a mutual nod we parted; he went on about his business, and I went back to waiting.

The wind, after all, was the reason I was here in Connolly Station. Usually my weekend commute started in Bray, which meant the train was already full, leaving me to stand at the end of the carriage, an area constantly befouled with smokers holding their cigarettes out the window. Today, the strong wind had encouraged the management to prematurely close the call centre where I worked - the metal roof was rattling, and the noise generated by frequent gusts made our job all but impossible. So, I hopped a DART towards the city in the hope of securing a seat for the journey to Wexford.

The students that made up a sizeable chunk of the usual travelling public had already adjourned to the provinces for the holidays, so that for once the grubby cement and tile platform was visible; scuff marks, grime and rain stains. The communal warmth and shelter of the crowd was missing too, and this wind carried pinpricks of icy air, bombarding the exposed faces of the hardy would-be-passengers.

about: scrabble dictionary

A very cool little widget from Collins...