Judy Wells Poet

Everything Irish, 1999

EVERYTHING IRISH ABOUT ME

IN A NUTSHELL

My mother's church in San Francisco was called St. Brigid's, my church was called St. Catherine's, I was told I had the map of Ireland on my face, said "Mither, I want me mush" when I was a kid, my best friend in kindergarten was called Kathleen Ahern, I went to parochial school, wore a navy blue uniform and beanie, had priests called Monsignor Burke, Father Cushnahan, and Father Coffey in our parish, my smart girl rival in Catholic school was Marleen Dunne, Paul and Philip Murphy, the twins, were the milk boys at school, Darragh Flynn could run faster than me, I collected holy cards, hoarded silver dollars in my sock, was sexually repressed, committed minor sins but still thought I was going straight to hell, took the "pledge" when young, I think, I forget, I had an alcoholic uncle who was the family secret, I had very pale skin, blue eyes and dark hair, my childhood enemy was Marylou Mahoney down the street, her mother thought I was the ringleader against her daughter, I wore green on March 17th, said I was "English, Irish, and Scottish" when asked what I was, I went to Mass every Sunday, knelt down before the radio for rosary recitation, I sunburnt to a crisp, had a spinster schoolteacher aunt called Agnes, I never thought of going to Ireland, but went to France three times, my mother was a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat, feisty politico, go-straight-to-the-top type woman, her son was favored over three daughters, I love potatoes and sweets, and often feel I'm starving--that's everything Irish about me in a nutshell--except I'm always running late, love to chat, and I am a poet.

Everything Irish

by Judy Wells

1999

Scarlet Tanager Press

P.O. Box 20906, Oakland, CA 94620

ISBN 0967022401

$12.95

ORDER INFO: www.scarlettanager.com

6x9,perfectbound, trade paperback

126 pages

Cover art: An adaptation of the initial "D" from Collectio Canonum, Cologne Cathedral Library, Germany. Copyright at Classic Designs, Ltd., 1992; reproduced with permission by L.J. Young pubsher, The Mills, Blarney, Co. Cork, Ireland.

Cover design: Judy Wells, Dale Jensen, Scott Perry

Book design: Scott Perry of Archetype Typography

Back cover photo: Olivia Eielson

Typography: Archetype Typography, Berkeley, CA

Judy was featured at the 2014 11th Annual Irish-American Festival, "Crossroads," reading from Everything Irish and other books.

WHAT WE FORGOT

"Beware, beware, Mac Conglinne,

lest the gravy drown thee!"

The Vision of Mac Conglinne

12th century

For 4th and 5th generation

Irish-Americans

We forgot our language

We forgot the land we came from

had rolling green hills

We forgot our songs

We forgot our stories

We forgot we were cattle people

We forgot our voyage tales

where the West didn't mean

only Death

where the West meant

Tir na n'Og

The Land of Youth

where there was no decay

We forgot the islands of women

The land in the sea

surrounded by sea horses

We forgot the sea

was a plain of red flowers

which Manannan mac Lir

thundered through in his chariot

We forgot we ever had a vision

of a silly land of surfeit

where we rowed on a lake of milk

skimming cream

where castles were made of

butter and lard

and our palisades, of bacon

We forgot we had cheese gates

and cheese stepping stones

and a voracious demon who slipped

inside our mouths

in an apple

whom a cleric called Mac Conglinne

enticed from our king's gullet

by enumerating

all the things

the demon liked to eat--

curds and whey

and milk and lard

and bacon and mutton

and buttered rolls and mead

until the demon couldn't stand

it anymore and leaped

from the king's throat

and there were lands

where you could eat a bird's egg

and then sprout feathers

and lands where the fragrance of

crimson trees satisfied your hunger

and lands where multi-colored birds

blue, crimson, and green

sat three in a row

and sang away your grief

and Yeats tried to tell us

but only a little

And we tried to forget in America

We wanted real bacon

in our bellies

and we wanted shoes

and then we wanted fancy red-flowered hats

and we wanted an education

so we could become lawyers,

and nurses and school teachers

so we would not have to be domestics

and serve roasted birds

to "our betters" who would never sprout

feathers

Never fly as we did

with the knowledge of our tales

over seas of red flowers

We forgot, we forgot our tales

and remembered only

dark seas

and coffin ships

We forgot our seas of red flowers

and Manannan mac Lir on his steed

galloping to meet us

where we were

Queen of the island

with 17 daughters

Queen of the island

with 17 daughters

LIGHT AS THE HOLY GHOST

Father Cushnahan

who could rip through a Mass in about 20 minutes

once slid back the confessional door

and burped

in my ear.

I wonder now

whether he kept a bottle of brandy

in there to keep him company.

And was he the one

who laughed at me

when I finally dredged up

my decade old mortal sin

because I was flying overseas

and didn't want to go straight to hell

when the plane went down

over the Atlantic?

And of course the sin was nothing really,

your classic "I told a lie in confession."

I pretended I missed Mass on Sunday

when I had nothing else to say

but once you've told a lie in confession

you've really done it

because it's a sacrilege

and then you go to Communion

with a mortal sin on your soul

and you've just compounded your guilt

and then you do the same thing for 10 years

till you're a Mother Lode of mortal sins

and by God, you better confess

before you ever take an airplane trip

because you're bound to be on the doomed plane

with Satan at the helm

so even though Father Cushnahan

burped in my ear

and laughed at me

and only made me say about

5 Hail Marys

and 5 Our Fathers

for 10 years of sacrilege and guilt--

the same penance as if I confessed

I was mean to my sisters--

I sailed out of that confessional

light as the faint scent of booze

on Father Cushnahan's breath

or the Holy Ghost

ready for any flight

anyone wanted to put me on

and this is the power of religion

and this is what makes you a believer

and this is what makes you a poet.

IF A BIRD ENTERS YOUR HOUSE,

SOMEONE IS GOING TO DIE.

Old Irish superstition

Last summer on the Aran Islands,

on that great slab of limestone called Inishmore

we awoke to a great whirring

in our room.

Dale looked behind the curtains and found

a bird beating its wings between

curtains and window pane.

He shooshed it out.

"Don't worry," he said.

"It didn't really get into the house."

We were about to embark on a pilgrimage

to Northern Ireland,

once more in quest of my ancestors.

We searched for the dead

not knowing the dead was with us all along.

In America, on my return, my sister Nancy

said matter-of-factly on the freeway

as her husband drove us from San Francisco Airport,

"Agnes died on July 22nd while you were away."

I heard the bird beating her wings

between curtain and window pane,

the message half-delivered,

my aunt's soul

making that last, hard passage

leaving human body, reluctantly,

reluctantly, for life

on the other side.

2015 Copyright by Judy Wells

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