St. John’s Eve
Yesterday, June 23, was St. John’s Eve. I heard of no bonfire in these parts. There was a time when there would be a bonfire at every crossroads.
The Flags are Out for Féile 2016
Everywhere you look in town this week there are flags. On the street we have the strange sounds of lads in football jerseys speaking with American accents.
It’s all because of Féile Peile na nÓg. This is a competition for players Under 14. There are competitions in hurling, football camogie and handball and they taking place all over Kerry nd Limerick this weekend.
Listowel Arch is Restored
This little corner of our town is due to undergo big change soon. The arch will be unveiled and the old Neodata building which had been used by Kerry County Council is to be demolished.
What is coming in its place?
As soon as I know you’ll be the first to find out.
Murhur Pupils in 1982
Photo with names from Moyvane Village on Facebook
Wonderful photo of 2nd and 3rd
class with Mrs. Adams in Murhur NS from 1982.
Front Row: Joanne Shanahan,
Sinead McEvoy, Aileen Stack, Esther Foley, Mary Lynch, Michelle Sheehan, Riona
Fitzmaurice, Celine Kennelly, Noreen Brosnan, Breda Quinn, Claire McGrath,
Margaret Scanlon, Brid Kearney
Middle Row: Paul Hudson, Adrian
O’Connell, John Fitzgerald, Marguerite Greaney, Denise Carmody, Yvonne
O’Carroll, Mary Brassil, Keith O’Connell, Margaret Enright, Irene Culhane,
Kathleen Enright, Michelle Groarke, Aine Kissane, Martin Mulvihill, Liam Roche,
DD Hughes, Richard Stack, Johnny Stack
Back Row: Nola Adams, Pat
Kearney, Jim Liston, John Cunningham, Roger Mulvihill, James Culhane, Stack,
Shane Riordan, Andrew O’Connor Bray, Shane Hughes, Muiris O’Connell, Padraig
Kearney, Aidan Stack, Maurice O’Connor, Padraig Horan, John Horan, Maurice
Kearney, Conor Walsh, Myles Quinn, Kevin Greaney
Blast from the Past
This turned up on the internet.
Mount Carmel Industrial school
(Connie Roberts won the prize for a poetry collection at Listowel Writers Week 2013. This is one of the many powerful poems in that collection)
I have no Mossbawn
to take down from a shelf
and leaf through. No banks of earth
embroidered with ferns and bluebells;
no rabbits running through the thicket,
no wrens sheltering in the boxwood hedge.
My omphalos is a pigeon-grey orphanage yard
clotted with kids; see-saws, pissy knickers,
a clay filled Kiwi tin on a hopscotch square;
British Bulldog; freckled faces, conkers on
shoelaces, pig-tailed girls twirling twine
jump ropes by Saint Martha’s Kitchen.
Jack stones, scabby knees; chinny alley marbles,
and alongside the cloister, two seater barn red swings
We rode like horses till suppertime’s holler.
My initiation that summer in ’69
galloping from the scullery to
the laundry- my brother riding piggyback-
I tripped. Like dripping solder, globules of blood
fell from my nose to the concrete turf.
My baptism, a brazen call to bear witness?