After spending a little time in the sunshine visiting my sons graveside, I took a little time to Browse (as it were) through a number of old graves, Some were dating back to 1700’s… One portion of this graveyard has the ruins of an old Catholic Church building which had gone into ruins during British colonial rule. BUT one graveside caught my eye and attention. It is the resting place of Seán “Clárach” Mac Domhnaill an Irish Language poet who was born not very far from my home town, but also lived not very far away.
A little research into this gentleman both brought some keen interest as to how this poet escaped my notice until this time. Considering one of his greatest work (and most will say is his greatest work) is one of my favourites “Mo Ghille Mear” (My Gallant Hero / my spirited lad) which is in music in the irish language… I do suggest folks check it out sometime, but it is in the Irish language (which is one of the Gaelic languages).
This inspired me to write of something that again as many times before took a different route than it first started out as. I am inspired by writers and poets who have long come and gone before us. Their writings are often so well known to us and we forget the impact such awesome writers and poets have had on society about us. Also an interest of mine is looking through ancient gravesides, thus piecing historical events into the dates of those resting there. In other words placing history into resting places of those there within. Which found myself at the graveside of this irish language poet. I realise that this is not a backstory of the poem BUT rather how the writing of the poem came to pass.
Home in Kind Between clerks and rushing dogs, Listening to the sounds of bullfrogs. Sounds carry for a time in the breeze, Through the rustling of the trees. Stationed at the cross roads weary, Looking for familiar signs felt dreary. Take east to venture back old tracks, Not a sight to revisit for beeswax. Hedgerows overgrown easily hides, The moonlight that guides on sides. Wildlife appears still and extinct, But yet I realised That I had blinked. The eyesore that troubled forgotten, For moments that had me caught in. Layers of life swarmed about unseen, Yet attention captured me as had been. Take me home through country roads, Where life slows enough to see the codes. Bring the spices that adds again to zeal, I’ll skip the meal for what is still real. © Pat Fitzgerald 2022
Thank you for taking a little time to read this little post. It is my hope that you will have at least found a little something within the lines of this post. OR that you found a gem or two in which you could chew over at some point. If you have a comment that you feel that you should make, I welcome with an open heart. BUT as always I ask that folks comment in a polite manner. This is to avoid any insult that some may find somewhere within this post.
I hope also that a poem written on a day that sees another birthday without a child that has been gone from us so long now, but still remains to have a large impact on my life. Happy Birthday son (where ever you may be).
When posting such posts I am prone to making mistakes or typos when posting. But when I discover them I correct and update ASAP. Thus I ask for forgiveness for any mistakes you may find.
Until next time, please take care, stay safe and look out for those within society that may may be in need of a little love at this time.
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4 thoughts on “Home in Kind”
💜 My condolences to you, your family and friends; “No parent should have to bury their child.” ~ King Theoden, ‘LOTR’ – The Two Towers…there is IPT (Immaculate Precision Timing) that some call Divine Timing; my marvellous mother is in the process of burying my gregarious grandmother who had a Grand Innings of 100+ years…it saddens me that I will never see her body again; but I am comforted by “Irish” Wakes that celebrate 3DLife rather than Grieving for the Dead…as Grief is for The 3DLiving while The Dead look on from Beyond The Veil in Bliss, ‘On Death and Dying’ ~ Elizabeth Kübler-Ross is worth a comforting read 📚 and just as a parent tells bedtime 🛌 stories to their kids perhaps it would give you some succour to read 📚 to your son in his grave; as he will certainly hear the voice of his mother 👩
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Here’s a thought. We all live only in the present moment, moment by moment, always now. It was/is the same for those long-ago writers. They lived in the here and now, moment by moment.
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My father said it was wrong that a father had to bury his son. My brother died at 52…a hard loss for us all. I hope when you visit at the graveside you can feel the connection. And…the poem….”Stationed at the cross roads weary,” this is a great line and resonates with me. Thank you.
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Thank you. No Parent should ever have to go through such things… But sadly it is the way of this world.. I have a connection that is heart deep. such stays with me throughoout my life.