I'm going to be sharing this space with some fellow writers over the coming months as it's always interesting to see what other people are up to.
The marvellous Lia Mills, whose novel, Fallen (Penguin 2014), had me captivated earlier this year, has interviewed me over on her blog - Given that her own novel is set in 1916 Dublin, she was interested to talk to me about my own views of history and creative writing. You can read the results over on Lia's blog Libran Writer here.
I'm also going to be talking to British novelist S.J. Holloway about his forthcoming novel The Words We Use Are Black and White, which will be released in November. Simon and I will be doing a joint reading in Bangor Library, Bangor, North Wales, in early December and he'll be coming over to read at the Irish Writers Centre in February, along with the wonderful Nerys Williams. You can read all about Simon here:
Welcome to my new blog
Hi there.
I'm a writer and freelance teacher and editor with an addiction to new technology.
Having haphazardly kept a blog elsewhere over the past couple of years, I'm determined to start afresh with this one. The challenge will be to keep it updated, interesting and relevant. Time will tell.
I'm a writer and freelance teacher and editor with an addiction to new technology.
Having haphazardly kept a blog elsewhere over the past couple of years, I'm determined to start afresh with this one. The challenge will be to keep it updated, interesting and relevant. Time will tell.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Uncovering a Hidden
History
For much of my life, I had absolutely no idea that my grandfather,
Michael McCann, had fought in the First World War. I grew up with the image of
him as the archetypal Irish nationalist hero of the first decades of the
twentieth century. A brooding photograph of him in Free State Army uniform and
flat-topped army cap dominated the dresser in my mother’s kitchen; stories of
his escapades in the War of Independence and the Civil War were an integral
part of family lore. But there was no mention of the earlier conflict my
grandfather was involved in, as a Lance Corporal for the Royal Munster Fusiliers.
His experience, like that of so many of the hundreds of thousands of Irishmen
who fought in World War I, had been quietly obliterated from the official narrative.
There was no room in the nationalist mythology for any stories about those who
fought for other causes.
When I began to research my grandfather’s life in greater detail, in preparation for a memoir I hoped to write about him, I first turned to the obvious sources to flesh out the information I already had about his campaigns in the War of Independence and the Civil War. The Irish Military Archives were very helpful in finding Witness Statements that mentioned my grandfather, and his role in the various arson attacks in the North East of England that led to his imprisonment in Parkhurst in 1920. Newspaper cuttings testified to his involvement in ambushes during the Irish Civil War. The Garda Archives were able to provide me with an A4 sheet detailing his subsequent career as a Detective Inspector with the newly established Garda Siochána.
It was when I was trawling through genealogy websites to see if
I could get more information about my grandfather’s family, who were small
farmers in a townland called Derryronane in County Mayo, that the greatest surprise
was uncovered. By this stage I knew he’d fought in the Great War – my uncle
Liam had given me the one artefact linking my grandfather to the British Army:
his soldier’s pay-book and wallet. But it wasn’t until I visited the genealogy
website, and came across a posting from a complete stranger who was also
seeking information about the Derryronane McCanns, that I got the visual
evidence. The stranger turned out to be my second cousin – a direct descendant
of my grandfather’s brother, John – and after we had exchanged emails he
offered to send me various family photos.
When the email arrived with the PDF attachment, I casually scrolled through the old black and white photos of people who were vaguely familiar and others who were completely new to me. Then I came across one that brought me up short. A young man in British Army uniform poses with ceremonial cane, right-hand resting on the back of a tall, mahogany and leather chair. The pale eyes stare out quizzically with an expression I’ve often seen on the face of my elder brother, Tom. I knew, without having to be told, that this was a photograph of my grandfather, Michael McCann.
My mother, Mai, who is a marvellous raconteur, and who, at the age of 85, has an extraordinary memory for events that happened decades ago, had never seen that photograph, nor had any of her surviving siblings. I can only conclude that he sent it as a postcard to his family back on the farm in Derryronane, and that it was kept in his brother’s family and taken to the UK when a niece emigrated there sometime in the 1940s. I can’t imagine that it was ever displayed proudly on a mantelpiece; in post-independent Ireland, few were prepared to speak openly about family members who had fought for King and Country. So much had happened in the intervening years – a country divided by traumatic Civil War and attempting to come to terms with all the violence and petty hatreds that conflict had unleashed. Small wonder they adopted the classic Irish strategy of ‘whatever you say, say nothing.’
My grandfather must have seen extraordinary things in his early life but remained reticent throughout his later years. The various injuries (shrapnel wounds to the leg and wrist, a toe shot off) were the physical manifestation but there was little evidence of the mental suffering. One can only imagine the sort of post-traumatic stress he would have suffered, and was forced to contain within himself.
That tension between the public and the private expressions
of identity captured my imagination; rather than memoir, I began to think about
poems that might explore that tension. That was the genesis of this new
collection which presents a parallel
sequence of poems, one relating to my relationship with my own father, who
died from a long illness during the making of the book; the second exploring the
life of my grandfather, whose story slowly emerges through my mother's
memories, and my own research. I was delighted when my publisher agreed
to put Granddad’s World War I photo on the cover.
I’ve no idea what Michael McCann would make of the book: puzzlement, perhaps, or annoyance that anyone was making much of what he himself had discounted or kept to himself. But I do hope that he might understand the motivation of the writer: to tell the story of a heroism typical of his generation, a heroism in danger of being forgotten once this decade of commemoration concludes.
Her Father’s Daughter is published by Salmon Poetry (Co. Clare). Further information is available on http://www.salmonpoetry.com/details.php?ID=344&a=12
Monday, August 18, 2014
Back to school time 2014
It must be the chiller winds and browning leaves, not to mention the crab apples ripening on the tree outside my window, but thoughts turn to the new academic year, and the various courses I'll be teaching.
As I write, there are still some spaces available on the 10-week Finding the Story Course which I facilitate at the Irish Writers Centre in Parnell Square. It's a day-time course, running from 11am to 1pm and starting on Wednesday 24th September. I look at all aspects of narrative - structure, characterisation, use of imagery, setting as well as the various genre and forms available. There'll be a follow on course in the Spring but Finding the Story is also pretty self-contained. You'll get more details, and booking forms etc, on http://www.writerscentre.ie/html/courses/Autumn2014/findingthestory_omahony.html
There's also still time to book a slot in the Open University's Advanced Creative Writing Course A363. This course focusses on dramatic techniques and how they can be adapted to all forms of writing and is a follow on from the OU's Creative Writing A215 course. This is a substantial commitment, as it takes place over a full academic year, from October to May, and it involves a number of assignments that require you to write, adapt, critique, but by the end of the course you are guaranteed to have produced a body of work, and will have got significant one to one feedback from me as course tutor. This course is a mixture of face to face tutorials (2) and online tutorials, as well as ongoing forum discussion via Moodle. More details are to be found on http://www.open.ac.uk/courses/modules/a363
As I write, there are still some spaces available on the 10-week Finding the Story Course which I facilitate at the Irish Writers Centre in Parnell Square. It's a day-time course, running from 11am to 1pm and starting on Wednesday 24th September. I look at all aspects of narrative - structure, characterisation, use of imagery, setting as well as the various genre and forms available. There'll be a follow on course in the Spring but Finding the Story is also pretty self-contained. You'll get more details, and booking forms etc, on http://www.writerscentre.ie/html/courses/Autumn2014/findingthestory_omahony.html
There's also still time to book a slot in the Open University's Advanced Creative Writing Course A363. This course focusses on dramatic techniques and how they can be adapted to all forms of writing and is a follow on from the OU's Creative Writing A215 course. This is a substantial commitment, as it takes place over a full academic year, from October to May, and it involves a number of assignments that require you to write, adapt, critique, but by the end of the course you are guaranteed to have produced a body of work, and will have got significant one to one feedback from me as course tutor. This course is a mixture of face to face tutorials (2) and online tutorials, as well as ongoing forum discussion via Moodle. More details are to be found on http://www.open.ac.uk/courses/modules/a363
Friday, February 1, 2013
A poem for the first day of Spring????
St Brigid’s Day, Woodside Road
For Fiona Curran
It’s just as well we didn’t bet our souls on it.
This first day of pagan spring dawns white,
the two-day fall blanking out pavements,
children making hay of it with snowballs.
One attempts, Sisyphus-style, to roll a boulder heavier
than his bodyweight up the embankment.
than his bodyweight up the embankment.
Mothers in tracksuits supervise from front-doors,
fathers, scrapers in hand, track warily round cars.
Sane people stay indoors, waiting for the equinox
and the met office to make it official.
But I brave the frost, looking for some augury or other,
find it in a melted six inch square in Vi’s planter.
I hunker down for a closer look, then bow before
green shoots tangled in a perfect plaited cross.
green shoots tangled in a perfect plaited cross.
(from Her Father's Daughter, forthcoming from Salmon Poetry, 2014)
Thursday, December 27, 2012
He disappeared in the dead of winter
Auden was talking about Yeats here, but it's equally apt in the case of the great Dennis O'Driscoll, who died on 24th December at the unbearably young age of 58. Dennis had an extraordinary talent of making everyone feel like they were his good friend; he embodied courtesy in a world where it was rare and never forgot to acknowledge in that lovely large cursive handwriting of his anything he felt deserved to be acknowledged. I'm incredibly proud that his last signed book for me - his collection Dear Life published by Anvil this Summer - mentioned a 'valued friendship'; I did nothing to deserve it, God knows, but Dennis was generous that way.
I reviewed Dear Life for a UK literary journal; the review, written last July, was sadly confident that Dennis would have many years of productive retirement ahead of him. I reproduce it here as one last, sad, tribute to a very great poet and a very great man.
Auden was talking about Yeats here, but it's equally apt in the case of the great Dennis O'Driscoll, who died on 24th December at the unbearably young age of 58. Dennis had an extraordinary talent of making everyone feel like they were his good friend; he embodied courtesy in a world where it was rare and never forgot to acknowledge in that lovely large cursive handwriting of his anything he felt deserved to be acknowledged. I'm incredibly proud that his last signed book for me - his collection Dear Life published by Anvil this Summer - mentioned a 'valued friendship'; I did nothing to deserve it, God knows, but Dennis was generous that way.
I reviewed Dear Life for a UK literary journal; the review, written last July, was sadly confident that Dennis would have many years of productive retirement ahead of him. I reproduce it here as one last, sad, tribute to a very great poet and a very great man.
THE
SUPERANNUATED MAN: REVIEW BY NESSA O’MAHONY
Dear
Life
by Dennis O’Driscoll, 112pp, £9.95,
Anvil Press Poetry, Neptune House, 70 Royal Hill, London SE10 8RF.
www.anvilpresspoetry.com
I don’t remember many texts I studied at school, but for
some reason Charles Lamb’s ‘The Superannuated Man’ has stayed with me; there is
something chilling about his description of the impact of working for a living:
‘I had grown to my desk, as it were; and the wood had entered into my soul’. Reading
Dennis O’Driscoll’s new collection (his ninth), I wonder whether he might share
the sentiment. O’Driscoll recently retired from the Irish civil service so now
has the time to ponder on what life offers when one is released from the
bondages of employment. He treats this major transition with characteristic
causticity:
I forfeited my
rightful place at the tea-break table.
An I’m Boss mug expectorating on the draining board.
The Man United one Tipp-Exed with a name.
A plastic milk container on which Stats is scrawled.
An I’m Boss mug expectorating on the draining board.
The Man United one Tipp-Exed with a name.
A plastic milk container on which Stats is scrawled.
[‘Retirement’
from ‘Revenue Customs’]
That verb ‘expectorate’ is the key to O’Driscoll’s
understated genius; it lifts what might otherwise seem pure documentary onto
another level entirely.
O’Driscoll’s mordant wit informs
many of these poems, particularly those that dissect the clichés in the popular
culture of post-Celtic Tiger Ireland. In ‘Fair Game’, the target is ‘The
elephant in the room’ – we’ve ignored a lot of those over here. In ‘Compo’, he
forensically skewers the cult of anger that is equally prevalent:
Be absolutely
apopletic.
Fuming mad.
Lobby. Picket. Hector.
Threaten to bring your case
to the highest tribunal in the land.
Fuming mad.
Lobby. Picket. Hector.
Threaten to bring your case
to the highest tribunal in the land.
O’Driscoll’s approach to humour is similar to that of US
poet Billy Collins; he pursues an idea far beyond its logical conclusion and
forces the reader, in the process, to reconsider everything she has taken as a
given.
But beyond the humour is a darker
thread, an almost despairing recognition that mankind has what he calls in the
poem ‘Spare Us’, an ‘built-in obsolescence’, both on a general level – ‘Consign
us to the past / Find solutions to what baffled us. / Put us down to
experience’ (from ‘Not The Dead’) – and on a personal one. Some poems relate to
illness and to the resulting awareness of transience:
The tally of
years
added up so rapidly
it appeared I had
been short-changed,
tricked by sleight
of hand, fallen victim
to false bookkeeping.
added up so rapidly
it appeared I had
been short-changed,
tricked by sleight
of hand, fallen victim
to false bookkeeping.
[‘Time
Enough’]
Yet O’Driscoll is a poet always prepared to see the other
side of the argument, as the poem ‘Admissions’ attests:
Before you do
down life again,
badmouth a world that never lives up
to its billing, recall how glorious it seemed,
your unwillingness to let go, that evening
you were driven to Admissions.
badmouth a world that never lives up
to its billing, recall how glorious it seemed,
your unwillingness to let go, that evening
you were driven to Admissions.
For this poet, each ‘shabby sight’ ‘gleams with some
ameliorating / feature’ and this preparedness to accept imperfection is the
prevailing tone of the penultimate, title poem.
[ …….. ] Leaves
swirl around my feet now in a crinkled tin-
foil din. Thousands of leaves. A sybil’s mixed signals, they shift
positions, shuffle their decks like tarot packs, gyrate sugges-
tively. I go on my knees in search. Keep on drawing blanks.
foil din. Thousands of leaves. A sybil’s mixed signals, they shift
positions, shuffle their decks like tarot packs, gyrate sugges-
tively. I go on my knees in search. Keep on drawing blanks.
[‘Dear
Life’]
This is a thoughtful, funny, sad and ultimately moving book
of poems. I recommend it whole-heartedly.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
The Nest Big Thing (with thanks to Noel Duffy)
The next big thing
The wonderful poet and fiction-writer Noel Duffy set
me a challenge a few weeks back to follow him in this literary chain, where
writers talk about forthcoming books. You can read his splendid account at http://noelduffy.blogspot.ie/
1) What
is the working title of your next book?
My next
collection of poems is provisionally titled Her
Father’s Daughter, which is the way that I’ve been imagining it over the
past couple of years. But I wouldn’t rule out that changing before the book
actually gets published. Titles are slippery things, intimately connected with
both the mood of the poems, but also with the prevailing mood of the writer,
which can change like the weather. I remember finding it very difficult to find
the title of my last collection, Trapping
A Ghost (Bluechrome 2005). There was no individual poem title that seemed
to capture its spirit, and I don’t know how many times I read it through before
seeing an individual line from a poem that seemed to offer the best potential
as a book title. And then it seemed to have been to have always been the title.
Strange, but true.
2)
Where did the idea come from for the book?
I’ve been meditating
about father –daughter relationships for at least the last seven years, and
probably for much longer than that, because family relationships have always
been an obsession in my poetry. But the impetus for this exploration was my
father’s first serious illness which, oddly, began this day 7 years ago, when
he collapsed with a pulmonary embolism and was rushed to hospital, where he
wasn’t expected to survive. We spent those anguished and terrified days all
through Christmas and the New Year at St. James’s Hospital Intensive Care Unit;
that bare little room with the drinks machine that never worked and the
flickering cathode lights has stayed with me ever since. He recovered from
that, but had suffered so much of what the doctors termed ‘collateral damage’
that his remaining few years were dogged with illness. So I guess I began a
prolonged period of grieving him, or preparing to let him go (he died in June
2010) and that’s what generated many of the poems. But gradually I got
perspective to see wider patterns; I’d separately been fascinated by my
maternal grandfather, many of whose stories I’d heard from my mother, so I
began to see a connection between two sets of father-daughter relationships,
and that’s how the book was really born.
3) What
genre does your book fall under?
It’s a
collection of poems, some lyric, some narrative. I always find myself wanting
to tell stories but need the compression that poetry provides at the same time.
4) What
actors would you choose to play the part of the characters in the movie
rendition?
These
questions are rather geared towards fiction, I suspect, and yet I can imagine a
movie treatment of my grandfather’s story, at least. I think Aidan Quinn would render
him very well; the same intensity, the same pale blue Irish eyes that can chill
and warm at the same time.
5) What
is a one-line synopsis of your book?
I’ve
spoken about the lure of compression in poetry so I should find that question
easy, shouldn’t I? And yet!!! Well, it’s a book about relationships and the
patterns they create and engrain, as well as about the ability to love while
knowing one is going to lose somebody.
6)
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agent?
As my good friend Noel
Duffy said in his interview, you’d never find an agent with a vocation for
representing poets. That reminds me of an agents’ tea party organised by the
Creative Writing faculty at the University of East Anglia, where I did my
Masters in 2003. There were some very heavy-hitters invited down from London to
meet the cream of the writing talent in my year, and there were some amazing
novelists then – Tash Aw, Naomi Alderman and our own Aifric Campbell to name
just three. But it was made clear to us poets that there wasn’t any point in us
attending the Tea Party because the agents had no interest in meeting us. So we
were left to gaze in, like the poor children outside the toyshop at Christmas.
Very poignant. I’m hoping the collection will be published by Salmon, who
published my last book.
7) How
long did it take you to write a first draft of the manuscript?
As I said
earlier, I’d been writing many of these poems for several years, but the real
work of pulling them together into book form began about three years ago, after
I’d published the verse novel. Then it became a process of ordering and
re-ordering, which may continue for a wee while yet.
8)
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Poets are always writing
about their parents, aren’t they? One book that certainly influenced me, though
I’d never reach its wonderful heights, was Kerry Hardie’s amazing collection The Sky Didn’t Fall, written about her
own father’s death. I loved the complete lack of self-pity, the honesty and
bravery and utter beauty of that book.
9)
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
As should be evident from
previous answers, my wonderful father, Donal J. O’Mahony, and my amazing
mother, Mai O’Mahony, who is an extraordinary story-teller and who has a
staggering memory for events that took place up to 80 years ago. She has always
been my inspiration.
10) What
else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?
I always
find it hard to answer that question, because why should anyone else care about
my own concerns. But we all have people we love and might lose, or might have
lost, and many of us in Ireland share a connection with a generation of
extraordinary men and women who went about fighting for the ideals they
believed in with quietness and integrity. So hopefully my book might resonate
in some way with those sorts of readers.
I am now
passing the baton in this extended literary relay race to novelist, poet,
blogger and performer Kate Dempsey. Here’s her bio:
Kate
Dempsey writes fiction and poetry and lives in Ireland. She has been collecting
jobs for her author biography since she could read. She has worked as a coffee
grinder, a terrible waitress in Woolworths, a Harrods shop assistant, a
computer programmer, a technical writer, a writer in schools and a mother.
She's lived in England, Scotland, The Netherlands, South West USA and now in
Ireland.
These diverse jobs and homes are reflected in her witty, observational writing, which is widely published in Ireland and the UK. Her short stories have been broadcast on RTE Radio and published in the Poolbeg Anthology 'Do The Write Thing.' She was shortlisted for the Hennessey New Irish Writing award three times and her poetry in many magazines and anthologies. She runs the Poetry Divas Collective, a glittering group of women who blur the wobbly boundaries between page and stage at cool events all over Ireland.
These diverse jobs and homes are reflected in her witty, observational writing, which is widely published in Ireland and the UK. Her short stories have been broadcast on RTE Radio and published in the Poolbeg Anthology 'Do The Write Thing.' She was shortlisted for the Hennessey New Irish Writing award three times and her poetry in many magazines and anthologies. She runs the Poetry Divas Collective, a glittering group of women who blur the wobbly boundaries between page and stage at cool events all over Ireland.
Her first
novel, The Story of Plan B, was shortlisted for the London Book Fair LitIdol.
Where to find Kate Dempsey online
Website: http://emergingwriter.blogspot.com
Twitter: PoetryDivas
Twitter: PoetryDivas
Facebook:
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Blog: http://emergingwriter.blogspot.com
Blog: http://emergingwriter.blogspot.com
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