Category: Poem Page 1 of 46

St. Patrick’s Hall at Christmas 2024

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Health warning to the squeamish…A turkey is harmed in this one.

Cold Turkey

Cyril Kelly remembers Christmas in his childhood home in Church Street

My mother was a milliner and her scissors chirped relentessly in the
shop. Each pattern was cut to a chorus; straw crackled, silk zipped
across the bias and there was a soft wheeze from fur and leather.
Hats preened on chrome stems everywhere; sequined veils, beads
fantails of velvet in Yule tide red. Looking down at me, those hats were like a flock of exotic birds roosting.

I was kneeling at the stool beside the old Singer sewing machine
doing my lessons. My headline, Christmas is coming and the geese
are getting fat was wrought with an N nib. The letters trembled
between the red and blue lines. My mother was at the counter,
ceaselessly stitching in silence, working against the clock towards
some elusive image of style and beauty.
Having agreed to make a gown for Mrs. Mac, she was struggling to
have it ready for the Hunt Ball on St. Stephens night. Forty button
holes had to be sewn into the gown. With every stitch, she drew the
needle up in a long, sighing arc while, beside me, the murmuring
from the stove was like a lullaby. The place was a cocoon of warmth
and the imminence of Christmas.

But from the way my mother oiled the needle, prodding it through the
roots of her hair; I could see that she was agitated. If she caught you
with a rap of that thimble it was worse than the wooden spoon!
Out in the backyard the turkey was fasting under the solitary tea
chest. I sensed that the time was nigh. She had arrived from her free
range fields the week before. Even though the daylight hours
were failing fast, I went out each afternoon in the December gloom to
feed her as soon as I got home from school. Almost as tall as myself,
she had a funny way of standing on one leg, the other one gathered
up under her as if she were going to produce a fob watch at any
moment from a pocket in her plumage.

Her gait was ungainly and I loved to watch the neck craning in
syncopated rhythm to every step, head poised at every pause, eye
alert for a sign of any smirk from me. Sometimes, the slanting,
midwinter light made her feathers gleam; metallic pewters, coppers
and bronze. Gazing at her, I often felt sorry for her, away from her
friends, away from Clounmacon and her breezy fields of freedom.
She had a lopsided look because my mother had clipped one wing
so that there was no flying into Dillon’s yard next door.

But worse, far worse, was yet to come. She had to spend her last 24
hours on earth in starving solitary, crammed under a tea chest that
had a nine inch block planked on top. Whenever the coast was clear,
I sneaked out to press a few scrawny crusts in under the tea chest.
Suddenly, exasperated with the intricacies of forty buttonholes, my
mother snapped; Aw here, and in a flurry the gown was cast aside
onto the sewing machine. Swerving around the corner of the counter,
she shut the shop door for the night. The iron bar clunked irrevocably
into the sockets on the door jamb. Trailing after her, I left the cozy
warmth of the shop behind.

When I got into the kitchen, the place was cold. She was rattling
through the cutlery drawer for the knife with the bleached bone
handle. It had a short blade, worn to a vicious concave shape from
repeated sharpening. Now it screeched mercilessly as she honed
the edge to a sliver of steel.
I had to pull the kitchen curtains apart to throw light on the corner of
the yard. A vague illumination fell on the scene outside, the theatre
of operations so to speak. I could barely distinguish the rusty tin
outline of the tea chest. All thoughts of the style and warmth in the
shop were banished.

In the yard, I could not stop shivering. There was a bit of a shumozle
as the tea chest was upended and the turkey hauled towards the
shore hole. And then it was my job to grasp one warm wing and the
trussed feet. The other wing was secured between my mother’s
knees. Gripping the beak with her left hand, she stretched the
scrawny neck and bent low over the grating. I braced myself for that
dreaded sound; the lisping hiss of two distinct incisions on the loose
goose-pimpled flesh of the neck. I felt it as keenly as if I had been slit
myself.
Immediately there was a splattering of blood near my shoes but in
those initial moments the bird remained absolutely motionless. Then,
as if realizing that my mother meant business, the legs and wing
convulsed. I had to hang on desperately. The frenzy seemed to last
an age, tugging and dragging me all over the slippery, sloping
surface. Eventually the struggle subsided and, after one final spasm,
the bird went limp first, and then heavy. A faint trickling continues
into the shore.
Head hooded in tissue paper, the turkey was rushed inside to the
kitchen; had to be plucked while the flesh was still warm. Sitting on
the sugán stool, my mother draped the bird across her lap. At that
stage of the procedure my job was to hold the mouth of a pillow case
open for the down and feathers. With soft explosive sounds, fistfuls
of plumage were ripped out, always against the grain. Sneezing
frequently, my mother stuffed every fistful deep into the pillow case.
Whenever the dead entrails of the bird sighed a splutter of grey
green shit, I had to wipe below the Pope’s nose with a page of The Independent.
For days after, the cold clammy turkey hung by the feet from a rafter
in the back porch. Plucked and pale, she wore a muffler of congealed
newspaper. Every time I passed, she was staring at me through a slit
in her slate-blue lids.

Even by Christmas Eve when my father, a commercial traveler,
returned to hear what a worthy man of the house I had been in his
absence, my response to the accolade of his handshake was wan.
And late that night, after I’d hung my stocking from the mantelpiece
and was ready to go up the stairs, I could hardly smile when my
mother paused to admire the stuffed turkey and chuckle; There’ll be
many a bird at the Hunt Ball on St. Stephen’s Night who won’t have
such stylish stitching decorating her craw.

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New Shop Popped Up

The people behind the delicious Brona chocolates have opened a shop at 3 William Street. As well as selling all their lovely chocolate products, they are selling hot chocolate…delicious!

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An Exiles Christmas

Martin OHara wrote in 2021…

This time last year we posted a poem called the Exiles Christmas, about an old retired Irishman, living in a small flat in London, reminiscing about his childhood days in Ireland in his youth. 

I based that poem on a man called Joe I worked with in England over thirty years ago. He was from county Tipperary, and he was actually living in a one bedroom flat from the time he came to England, up until I came to know him, a period of 22 years. 

He had never been back to Ireland in all that time. When the job finished, I lost contact with Joe, no mobile phones in those days. I often wondered what became of him as he had a fondness for the drink. 

To make a long story short I based that poem on Joe, and as it proved so popular last year, I thought we might post it again. And Joe, if your still out there, a very Merry Christmas to you.

AN  EXILES  CHRISTMAS

It was Christmas eve in London, 

And an Irishman, called Joe.

Stood by an upstairs window 

That looked on the street below. 

He could see the shoppers passing by,

Their voices filled with cheer.

As they shouted happy Christmas,

And a prosperous new year.

As he looked around the little room, 

That for years had been his home.

He was fifty years in London, 

Since he crossed the ocean foam. 

His youthful days behind him now,

And his working days long gone.

In retirement, his days were spent 

On his own, to carry on.

He could hear a church bell ringing, 

On the street across the way.

Where mass was celebrated, on

The eve of Christmas day. 

Then a choir started singing, and

The strains of silent night,

Came drifting through the window.

Into Joe’s old flat that night.

As he listened to the singing,

He began to shed a tear.

For he always felt emotional, 

On Christmas eve each year.

When old memories came flooding back,

And his thoughts began to stray.

To his childhood days in Ireland, 

Long ago and far away

He could see again the old thatched house,

At the corner of the lane.

Oh what he’d give to be a lad, and be

back there once again.

The candle in the window, 

To light a Welcome way.

For the virgin and the Christ child,

On the eve of Christmas day.

The Holly and the ivy, and the cards 

Around the fire.

And his mothers Christmas cooking, 

That would fill you with desire. 

The boxes left for Santa Claus,

In the hopes that he would call. 

With the toys to play on Christmas day, 

The happiest times of all.

As his memories began to fade, reality 

Set in.

He was back once more in London, 

In his little flat again.

And he drew his coat around him, as he

Sat back in his chair.

And for all those in his memories, he

began to say a prayer.

And he asked the Lord, to grant them rest,

In the land beyond the sky.

All the folks he once shared Christmas with,

In the happy years gone by.

Tomorrow at the center, he will meet his

Old friend jack, an Irishman just like himself. 

That never made it back.

They will have their Christmas Dinner, 

and a glass or two of beer,

As they join their old acquaintances,

And the friends they love so dear.

Everybody has their party piece, 

To raise a bit of cheer.

At their Christmas get together. 

In the center every year. 

So to all our Irish exiles, in lands 

far off and near.

The blessing of this Christmas time we

wish you all this year.

And although we are divided, by land

and sky, and foam, 

A very merry Christmas, from the Irish 

Folks at home.

Martin O’Hara     ©   29/11/2021

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The Best Elf Picture

Mick O’Callaghan spotted this one in an optician’s in Gorey.

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Some Listowel Hall doors at Christmas 2024

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MY CHRISTMAS WISH

by Junior Griffin

Oh Lord, when we give this Christmas time,

Do teach us how to share

The gifts that you have given us

With those who need our care,

For the gift of Time is sacred~

The greatest gift of all,

And to share our time with others

Is the answer to your call,

For the Sick, the Old and Lonely

Need a word, a kindly cheer

For every precious minute

Of each day throughout the Year,

So, in this Special Season

Do share Your Time and Love

And your Happy, Holy Christmas

Will be Blessed by Him above

Junior Griffin

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Aspects of Tralee

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A Fact

Orthodox Christians celebrate Christmas on January 6th.

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