Stars Sang in God’s Garden

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Many today listen to the song “Grace” without a thought for Joseph Mary Plunkett, the 1916 Easter Rising leader and martyr, yet he is the hero of that dirgeful ballad (though not, of course, its author).  It is still sung at almost every Irish wedding and weekly in Singing Lounges throughout the length and breadth of the country.  Even as I type, the tune runs through my head.  

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Going to my Hometown

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Parading a musty clop along the mall;

Redbrick and granite should glimmer in their boast.



Razing a glint in bier-garten toast,

I’m jealous – their sip, lip-locked – I’m enthralled.

 The chivalrous sweat in musical droves,

Saluting the weather with world-weary wink.

The steeples, serene, without rain to drink:

A clan wry, a-flowing – a city of mauve.

 

Borderline bubble I love you so well.

I source you for boredom, ’tis true, ’tis true,

For dryness can seem here the hottest of hells

But I would be dead if ’twas not for you –

A cynic. A liar. A lover. A son –

A soul wracked to bone mass from valley-sought glue.

McGinn

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Last evening at Newry Film Club we enjoyed an unusual offering “Departures” which focused on death, its meaning and how the ‘crossing’ causes us to reflect on the meaning of life.

The following poem by James Patterson has ‘McGinn’ observing, and reflecting upon his own lifeless corpse.  
 

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