Wednesday, 23 September 2009


Thanks to Leonardo for passing on this story, which humorously reminds us of the intractable nature of the ongoing conflict in the Middle East.
A reporter goes to Israel to cover the fighting. She is looking for something emotional and positive and of human interest. Something like that guy in Sarajevo who risked his life to play the cello everyday in the town square.
In Jerusalem, she heard about an old Jew who had been going to the Wailing Wall to pray, twice a day, every day, for a long, long time. So she went to check it out. She goes to the Wailing Wall and there he is!
So she watches him pray and after about 45 minutes, when he turns to leave, she approaches him for an interview.
"Rebecca Smith, CNN News. Sir, how long have you been coming to the Wall and praying?"
"For about 50 years."
"What do you pray for?"
"For peace between the Jews and the Arabs. For all the hatred to stop. For our children to grow up in safety and friendship."
"How do you feel after doing this for 50 years?"
"Like I'm talking to a bloomin’ wall."

Saturday, 19 September 2009



This morning on an Autumn walk
I passed the wooden church,
A funeral hearse was parked outside
Waiting in the lurch .

This afternoon I homeward went
Again I passed that place,
A wedding car now there parked
Festooned with silk and lace.

Two occasions on one day
Beneath the self-same sun,
One life fading, ebbed away
Two hearts joined a life begun.

A door closing, a door opening
A sombre dusk, a radiant dawn
Two celebrations on an Autumn day,
Tides coming, tides going.
Gerard O'Shea

Thursday, 17 September 2009


Last evening I went to the White House for the Wednesday night Poetry reading. There I met Eamonn Prendergast who recognised me from my occasional attendance at the Society of Friends (Quakers)) meetings at Punches Cross. He also knew Aidan (R.I.P.) from the meetings and wrote the following poem in his memory on the 29 th. Of February 2008...~GOSh.~
There is a red tulip in every heart,
Opening and closing,
Blossoming and bleeding,
Dancing and struggling,
Loving and grieving,
She is the red tulip in every man
He is the red tulip in every woman
That fragile flower within
The essence
Love seeking to live
On a summers day dancing
In the winters dancing rain waiting
In every face
Busting from within
The Son upon this earth
Red tulips
Blossoming and bleeding.
Eamonn Prendergast

Monday, 14 September 2009



Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century's streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.


Muriel Stuart

Sunday, 13 September 2009


While browsing in Ennis lately I came across this shop front. Apparently the recession has hit hard and even the exotic name of the premises could not save it from closure. ~GOSh.~

Saturday, 12 September 2009


Apart from this writers own mercurial temperament the most erratic component of the Dew has been the continuing commentary on the progress of the Irish weather. Now after what seemed like a summer of ‘forty days of rain’ the sun has broken through just in time for the return of vitamin D deprived children to their classrooms. With looming threats of Swine flu and economic malaise the Irish national mood has been considerably lifted by the sight of clear blue skies and the gentle kiss of sunshine on our pallid skins.Font size To celebrate the advent of this Indian Summer here is a poem by one of my favourites, Emily Dickinson…~GOSh.~




These are the days when birds come back,

A very few, a bird or two,

To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on

The old, old sophistries of June, -

-A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,

Almost thy plausibility

Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,

And softly through the altered air

Hurries a timid leaf!


Oh, sacrament of summer days,

Oh, last communion in the haze,

Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake,

Thy consecrated bread to break,

Taste thine immortal wine!


Emily Dickinson

Thursday, 10 September 2009


The notice on the window of this cafe in Finglas reads..
' All customers must be wearing
appropriate clothing - NO PYJAMAS '

Synonymous with the economic boom in this country arose the youth phenomenon of the pyjama shopper. Especially in the larger housing estates it was not uncommon to see teenage girls (mostly) out and about in daylight hours attired in pyjamas. This peculiar cultural practice continues as far as I know, I am indebted to super-snoop Antoin for clicking the picture above. ~GOSh.~

Tuesday, 8 September 2009


Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

"Smoke hangs like haze over harvested fields,
The gold of stubble, the brown of turned earth
And you walk under the red light of fall
The scent of fallen apples, the dust of threshed grain
The sharp, gentle chill of fall.
Here as we move into the shadows of autumn
The night that brings the morning of spring
Come to us, Lord of Harvest
Teach us to be thankful for the gifts you bring us ..."

"Lord, it is time. The summer was very big. Lay thy shadow on the sundials, and on the meadows let the winds go loose. Command the last fruits that they shall be full; give them another two more southerly days, press them on to fulfillment and drive the last sweetness into the heavenly wine." - Rainer Maria Rilke

September marks the beginning of the ecclesiastical year in the Eastern Orthodox Church.
On the first Sunday of September, the regata storica parade is staged in Venice, as prelude to the rowing contests known as regattas.
In the United States, September 11 is Patriot Day, in remembrance of the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001.
The equinox named the autumnal equinox in the northern hemisphere and the vernal or spring equinox in the southern hemisphere occurs on dates varying from 21 September to 24 September
Counterintuitively, the German Oktoberfest and the Chinese August Moon festival (more correctly called the Mid-Autumn Festival) both occur in September.


"The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers,
Chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hum,
And Mother cutsChrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze."-
John Updike, 'September'


"September twenty-second, Sir, the bough cracks with unpicked apples, and at dawn the small-mouth bass breaks water, gorged with spawn."- Robert Lowell


"In the garden, Autumn is, indeed the crowning glory of the year, bringing us the fruition of months of thought and care and toil. And at no season, safe perhaps in Daffodil time, do we get such superb colour effects as from August to November."- Rose G. Kingsley, The Autumn Garden, 1905

"The foliage has been losing its freshness through the month of August, and here and there a yellow leaf shows itself like the first gray hair amidst the locks of a beauty who has seen one season too many."- Oliver Wendell Holmes

"Spring scarce had greener fields to show than theseOf mid September; through the still warm noonThe rivulets ripple forth a gladder tuneThan ever in the summer; from the treesDusk-green, and murmuring inward melodies,No leaf drops yet; only our evenings swoonIn pallid skies more suddenly, and the moonFinds motionless white mists out on the leas."- Edward Dowden, In September

"I trust in Nature for the stable laws of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant and Autumn garner to the ends of time."- Robert Browning

Saturday, 5 September 2009


God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sovereign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.
Blind unbelief is sure to err
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.
William Cowpar

William Cowpar was a poet and hymn writer of the 18th. century whose literary output influenced other literary notables such as Wordsworth, Coleridge and Austen. While studying law he became mentally ill and attempted suicide and was taken to an asylum at St. Albans. During his rehabilitation there he experienced a conversion to Christ which altered the future course of his life. He later became friendly with the ex slave trader John Newton and together they produced the Olney Hymns (1779) from which God Moves In Mysterious Ways is taken. The hymn is reputed to be the last he wrote before his death and the story behind it is very dramatic. Throughout his life Cowpar battled with depression and doubt and on this particular evening he decided to commit suicide by drowning himself. He called a cab and told the driver to take him to the Thames River. However, thick fog came down and prevented them from finding the river . After driving around lost for a while, the cabby finally stopped and let Cowper out. To Cowper’s surprise, he found himself on his own doorstep: God had sent the fog to keep him from killing himself. Even in our blackest moments, God watches over us. ~GOSh.~