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.
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SUNDAY IN CATTLE COUNTRY
Sunday had its transcendent hush.
A few bell chimes, a day that lacked
the noise of other days.
A day of stillness, nothing to disturb
concordance between the cat and dog
and the hens in their squat
under sycamore branches.
No bread in the ovens,
fathers and sons in starched white shirts.
All doors and windows open,
a day for listening to radio wisdom
or an old time waltz giving slow rhythms
to the seventh day of the week.
It was as if no-one dared to speak.
Then Sunday lost its transcendent hush,
those who never doubted began to doubt,
roads were busy with travellers
in a rush to supermarket aisles,
towns with boutiques,
happy hour in a heritage pub –
its carvery serving Sunday lunch.
Clongill
Watercolour on paper
18 x 26cm
2016
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