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.
THE TURNPIKE ROADIn memory of my motherEach year there came a time for going back –always the same route, the city exitthrough Phoenix Park, then a country roadshe knew by heart: each bendin the road was a bend closer to homewith its sods in the grate, cooking smells.Home – a word that tasted of the old recipes,of salted butter, coarse-grained bread,the froth at the top of a white enamel bucket.O the city was hard to cherish but not the placeshe left to live among city dwellers:the kingdom of cut meadows, the crossroadswhere she used to dance and those shelteringbranches where the road unravelled –the last stretch before she entered the yardof little windows that rationed the light,where morning came with the cockerel crowing behindthe tin door of the henhouse, the smokeof a fire rekindled from one last blackened ember.28
ON THE FARMDon’t look for those not here: the peoplefrom the year the willow trees were plantedand another room was added to the house.Don’t look for the egg boxthat was never empty but always replenished,loose straw that sailed across the threshold;the wardrobe crammed with crinolineand cotton dresses, the suits with stripesand wide lapels, porter stains and elbow patches;the bad luck that came and wentand came again, the letterskept in envelopes with foreign stamps.They lived a life of chance and whatevertradition demands; their fasts were long,table talk began with a pinch of salt.Don’t look for signs of blessings, ordeals,what caused their troubles.Someone has planted a lawn where once there wasa garden of potato furrows.There is nothing left and no one to tellof the drudgeries of pulling weeds:Where one was plucked the next day two appeared.29
- 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 24 and 25: GOLDEN WONDERSThey were watching th
- Page 27: AT THE GRAVE OF MICHAEL BATHEThis c
- 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
ON THE FARM
Don’t look for those not here: the people
from the year the willow trees were planted
and another room was added to the house.
Don’t look for the egg box
that was never empty but always replenished,
loose straw that sailed across the threshold;
the wardrobe crammed with crinoline
and cotton dresses, the suits with stripes
and wide lapels, porter stains and elbow patches;
the bad luck that came and went
and came again, the letters
kept in envelopes with foreign stamps.
They lived a life of chance and whatever
tradition demands; their fasts were long,
table talk began with a pinch of salt.
Don’t look for signs of blessings, ordeals,
what caused their troubles.
Someone has planted a lawn where once there was
a garden of potato furrows.
There is nothing left and no one to tell
of the drudgeries of pulling weeds:
Where one was plucked the next day two appeared.
29
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