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 YEAR I TURNED TO POETRYThe year I turned to poetrysixteen years of dreaming were all I hadwhen my first muse putthe scribe’s pen in my hand.Now my life is four times thatand I am back where it all beganlooking for the midden that expandedlike the universe in a corner of the yardunder daytime’s silver birches,night-time’s bottleneck of stars.It was here my forefathers laboured for yearsgrinding hard clods into fine clay.Their house of sanctuary still standsbut rooms have been addedand I cannot find the windowwhere they scanned the Milky Way.It was here I first looked for wordsto describe the sacred and absurd.I looked in the furrows, the stubble,beneath pine needles lyingwhere they fell, under leaves that droppedfrom branches of the elm.Old Apple TreePencil and watercolour on paper29 x 21cm201665
- 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 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 67 and 68: BIOGRAPHIESSeán McSweeneySeán McS
- Page 70: 70
THE YEAR I TURNED TO POETRY
The year I turned to poetry
sixteen years of dreaming were all I had
when my first muse put
the scribe’s pen in my hand.
Now my life is four times that
and I am back where it all began
looking for the midden that expanded
like the universe in a corner of the yard
under daytime’s silver birches,
night-time’s bottleneck of stars.
It was here my forefathers laboured for years
grinding hard clods into fine clay.
Their house of sanctuary still stands
but rooms have been added
and I cannot find the window
where they scanned the Milky Way.
It was here I first looked for words
to describe the sacred and absurd.
I looked in the furrows, the stubble,
beneath pine needles lying
where they fell, under leaves that dropped
from branches of the elm.
Old Apple Tree
Pencil and watercolour on paper
29 x 21cm
2016
65
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