THE YELLOW RIVER - Seán McSweeney & Gerard Smyth
The Yellow River is a tributary of the Blackwater (Kells), which joins the Boyne at Navan, County Meath that unites the personal histories of poet Gerard Smyth and artist Sean McSweeney. Gerard Smyth spent many summers in Meath staying with his grandmother and an aunt, whilst originally Sen McSweeney’s family lived in Clongill until the untimely death of his father. Over two years Gerard Smyth revisited Meath in further inquiry with Belinda Quirke, Director of Solstice, in the development of a new suite of poems, recollecting and revisiting significant sites of occurrence in the poet’s and county’s history. Sean McSweeney created new work from trips to his original home place and the county. McSweeney here responds lyrically to particular sites of Smyth’s poetry, whilst also depicting in watercolour, ink, tempera and drawing, the particular hues of The Royal County. The Yellow River is a tributary of the Blackwater (Kells), which joins the Boyne at Navan, County Meath that unites the personal histories of poet Gerard Smyth and artist Sean McSweeney. Gerard Smyth spent many summers in Meath staying with his grandmother and an aunt, whilst originally Sen McSweeney’s family lived in Clongill until the untimely death of his father. Over two years Gerard Smyth revisited Meath in further inquiry with Belinda Quirke, Director of Solstice, in the development of a new suite of poems, recollecting and revisiting significant sites of occurrence in the poet’s and county’s history. Sean McSweeney created new work from trips to his original home place and the county. McSweeney here responds lyrically to particular sites of Smyth’s poetry, whilst also depicting in watercolour, ink, tempera and drawing, the particular hues of The Royal County.
GOLDEN WONDERSThey were watching the hayfields becoming abundant.For the boiling pot they uprooted the crop of Golden Wonders.They spoke in the language of where they were born –an open house on the road to Cavan and Monaghan.They had lived through commotions and troubles,frugal winters, cold comforts. This was the old countryin the old days – nights of looking into the fire,listening to the rafters creak; the roads were desolate,strangers seldom seen, maybe a cyclist pedalling hard,face flushed, remembering stories about the ghosts of Pikemenon their way to Kilmainham Wood.At night the first to sing was the one who staggered in,an ardent singer, back-of-the-chapel Sunday worshipperdown on one knee for the final blessing but gone in a secondbefore the Ave Maria.24
RELICSAmong the relics that were out of timethe plough that my grandfather walked behindwas left where it settled and ripenedinto rust in the garden rain.And down the lane I thought I heardhis plough horse, a piebald on the trottrying to find the gate to the paddockand the voice that used to lead her homealong the way where my grandfather sawthat winter wore its crown of thornsand the stubble fields were alllike the whiskers on a corpse.He would go out armed with spade or forkor maybe a stick to beat the bushes –grandfather who hammered the nail in the wallthat a horseshoe hangs on, who never envisagedhow his saplings would flourishfrom supple branches to strong sinewsor how his virgin grass would become an idyllfor a city child in summer months.I stand at crossroads where he stoodlooking in four directions – this way and that,a man of the last generationto blow out the candles, put oil in the lamps.25
- Page 1: YELLOWSeán McSweeney & Gerard Smyt
- Page 5: YELLOWSeán McSweeney & Gerard Smyt
- Page 10 and 11: called “ his personal language as
- Page 12 and 13: My divining rod - and Seán’s rap
- Page 14: Yellow RiverWatercolour on paper14.
- Page 18 and 19: THE BLACKBIRDS OF WILKINSTOWNIt is
- Page 21 and 22: Ploughed FieldTempera on paper14.5c
- Page 27 and 28: AT THE GRAVE OF MICHAEL BATHEThis c
- Page 29 and 30: ON THE FARMDon’t look for those n
- Page 31 and 32: 31Summer FieldTempera on paper28 x
- Page 33: THE RAIN BARRELGrandmother was a ra
- Page 36: WHEN THE ELMS DIEDWhen the elms die
- Page 39 and 40: THE KILLJOY MONTH…..and I knewtha
- Page 41: (3)i.m. Paddy TraynorWith his turf-
- Page 44 and 45: MYSTERIESWho wore the Tara Brooch b
- Page 46 and 47: THE SALTED ROADSLand pays the price
- Page 49 and 50: BECTIVEThe house still stands but t
- Page 53 and 54: SUNDAY IN CATTLE COUNTRYSunday had
- Page 55 and 56: LEDWIDGE IN LOVE AND WARA small hou
- Page 57 and 58: THE DAY JIM REEVES DIEDThe day Jim
- Page 59: THE OLDCASTLE DANCEfor Shay KeoghIn
- Page 62: KNIGHTSTOWN, CODAIn memory of Mary
- Page 66 and 67: Autumn BoglandPastel on Paper14.5 x
- Page 68: ACKNOWLEDGEMENTSWhile the creation
GOLDEN WONDERS
They were watching the hayfields becoming abundant.
For the boiling pot they uprooted the crop of Golden Wonders.
They spoke in the language of where they were born –
an open house on the road to Cavan and Monaghan.
They had lived through commotions and troubles,
frugal winters, cold comforts. This was the old country
in the old days – nights of looking into the fire,
listening to the rafters creak; the roads were desolate,
strangers seldom seen, maybe a cyclist pedalling hard,
face flushed, remembering stories about the ghosts of Pikemen
on their way to Kilmainham Wood.
At night the first to sing was the one who staggered in,
an ardent singer, back-of-the-chapel Sunday worshipper
down on one knee for the final blessing but gone in a second
before the Ave Maria.
24
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