tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70917564631288044322024-03-17T10:22:41.515-07:00Irish PapistFaithful to the Living Magisterium and the Pope!Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.comBlogger1958125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-35937694854588674882024-03-15T04:55:00.000-07:002024-03-15T07:53:36.293-07:00Happy St. Patrick's Day!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCEEmt_4e4de3D0lskZvgUckUbaWAR1SgRURD-BGdnDC4uVg4KN2hTcZ90pO6U59QZ1kpoguv-__TCG9jnlb5p6Yl3wJboXicCBnM4D5TpA6HjM3e8wTb7uFgfgaBj2j5mkAyzJLJ6-PpmKI3qkCaAoyEdQ3K-XtP0brG1DU0J4Qbw_db1cz_W0Yy6_qE/s2048/Dicky%20bow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCEEmt_4e4de3D0lskZvgUckUbaWAR1SgRURD-BGdnDC4uVg4KN2hTcZ90pO6U59QZ1kpoguv-__TCG9jnlb5p6Yl3wJboXicCBnM4D5TpA6HjM3e8wTb7uFgfgaBj2j5mkAyzJLJ6-PpmKI3qkCaAoyEdQ3K-XtP0brG1DU0J4Qbw_db1cz_W0Yy6_qE/w300-h400/Dicky%20bow.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>The ideal Ireland that we would have, the Ireland that we dreamed of, would be the home of a people who valued material wealth only as a basis for right living, of a people who, satisfied with frugal comfort, devoted their leisure to the things of the spirit – a land whose countryside would be bright with cosy homesteads, whose fields and villages would be joyous with the sounds of industry, with the romping of sturdy children, the contest of athletic youths and the laughter of happy maidens, whose firesides would be forums for the wisdom of serene old age. The home, in short, of a people living the life that God desires that men should live. With the tidings that make such an Ireland possible, St. Patrick came to our ancestors fifteen hundred years ago promising happiness here no less than happiness hereafter. It was the pursuit of such an Ireland that later made our country worthy to be called the island of saints and scholars. It was the idea of such an Ireland - happy, vigorous, spiritual - that fired the imagination of our poets; that made successive generations of patriotic men give their lives to win religious and political liberty; and that will urge men in our own and future generations to die, if need be, so that these liberties may be preserved.</i></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Eamon De Valera, St. Patrick's Day 1943</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">(A little in advance, but it's become a bit of a festival rather than a day, anyway...)</span></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-74837734563268114502024-03-12T02:57:00.000-07:002024-03-12T02:57:18.665-07:00Blessed Angela Salawa<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Today is the feast day of Blessed Angela Salawa. I'd never heard of her before this morning and I found her story quite fascinating.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Read about her <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angela_Salawa#/media/File:B%C5%82._Aniela_Salawa.jpg">here</a>.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyVwVjrk9vOa9JV9zSq20toRhJu6Z-d5vjzlblvejzOMOA7eiE4_Cux8ZG7boACZK4kCSrwmlwx_cSjo1ij5bWUDowH0eidr2SBZOUoiVfdJPHsDcOeMM0ZXerRVPF0QIWK3v-9_nT0k-Kx4cCUKfp-hWcVizsuPg2wihCtAQjUi6cfbRv0Vd6grN1m0/s1198/B%C5%82._Aniela_Salawa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="717" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyVwVjrk9vOa9JV9zSq20toRhJu6Z-d5vjzlblvejzOMOA7eiE4_Cux8ZG7boACZK4kCSrwmlwx_cSjo1ij5bWUDowH0eidr2SBZOUoiVfdJPHsDcOeMM0ZXerRVPF0QIWK3v-9_nT0k-Kx4cCUKfp-hWcVizsuPg2wihCtAQjUi6cfbRv0Vd6grN1m0/w240-h400/B%C5%82._Aniela_Salawa.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-74643443224516734832024-03-10T07:48:00.000-07:002024-03-10T07:52:36.352-07:00Deo Gratias!<span style="font-family: arial;">Yesterday saw an overwhelming rejection by the Irish electorate-- or those who bothered to turn up-- of the government's attempts to remove Ireland's constitutional protections for motherhood and marriage, and to swap those terms for terms which were nebulous and indefinable.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://www.rte.ie/news/2024/0309/1436988-referendum-history/"><br /></a></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://www.rte.ie/news/2024/0309/1436988-referendum-history/">In fact, it was a record defeat in one of the referenda.</a></span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiwLj0syjDoA1uWSPsGpVzOIvTlLJ3aAw4PL8VsB5Xdya5vI6gAHAQ1erdcwJcCOzDz1T3w9Zih8Uo5-EkocPsuNwCsx6KKdHnJXY00zxgiP7RD6fn2FrY4iW9-oWV9ZHqKU53rYGIdiAekCuIIXC_1ul3yKMjwAWbi_-vrSgFXf4ptX_sbGE4Ds4T0tY/s1200/columbo-prescription-murder-612867864.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="605" data-original-width="1200" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiwLj0syjDoA1uWSPsGpVzOIvTlLJ3aAw4PL8VsB5Xdya5vI6gAHAQ1erdcwJcCOzDz1T3w9Zih8Uo5-EkocPsuNwCsx6KKdHnJXY00zxgiP7RD6fn2FrY4iW9-oWV9ZHqKU53rYGIdiAekCuIIXC_1ul3yKMjwAWbi_-vrSgFXf4ptX_sbGE4Ds4T0tY/w400-h201/columbo-prescription-murder-612867864.webp" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Irish referenda are very mysterious. Why did the abortion referendum have a bigger "yes" vote than the gay marriage referendum? Why does an electorate which is so liberal on many social issues seem quite conservative when it comes to proposals such as abolishing the Seanad or lowering the age at which someone can run for President?<br /><br />I've voted "no" in every single referendum in my lifetime. I've only regretted it once-- I wish I had voted "yes" to the referendum on the Good Friday Agreement. At the time I thought it was a mistake to relinquish our constitutional claim to the North. Now, I think it was necessary for the peace which followed.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">I took a walk to the Dublin count centre in the RDS, close to where I live, to see if I could lap up any of the excitement from outside. But there wasn't much to see. I've always loved interviews and footage from the count centres. It's one of my life's ambitions to be present in one at some stage.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">This referendum was the first time I've voted as a Southsider. I crossed the Liffey in 2019 and there was a local by-election in my constituency in that time, but I didn't change my address on the register soon enough to vote. This time I managed it just in time.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">(I thought of turning the blog background pink for Laetare Sunday, but it doesn't seem worth it for one day. St. Patrick's Day is a Sunday this year, so since I rarely have desktop access at the weekend, it might be green for a few days on either side-- if I don't forget.)</span></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-73142327640945138902024-03-02T05:14:00.000-08:002024-03-02T05:16:40.828-08:00Vote No, and No<p><span style="font-family: arial;">It hardly needs saying, but anyone who can should vote "No" to both referendum proposals on Thursday.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">A country's Constitution is serious business. Our government (and we have had essentially the same government for decades now) seems to think it should be changed as often as a hand-towel.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://www.catholicbishops.ie/2024/02/25/irish-catholic-bishops-conference-statement-on-the-family-and-care-referendums/">Here's the statement from the Catholic bishops </a>(good on them) and here's a video from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l10W7YPbudI">Fr. Brendan Kilcoyne</a> making the arguments against the proposals.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">It seems most likely they will pass, given the voting record of the Irish public. But there's some hope; as recently as 2013, a proposal to abolish the Seanad (the Irish upper house of parliament) was narrowly rejected.</span></p>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-77901910809279179792024-02-29T07:06:00.000-08:002024-03-01T06:42:43.208-08:00Leap Day<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Today is the 29th of February, a day that only rolls around once every four years, or so.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">As readers will know, I'm very interested in days, holidays, seasons, and so forth. But especially days. I've written about it in many posts. <a href="https://irishpapist.blogspot.com/2013/03/a-satisfying-day.html">This one, for instance</a>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Leap Day is an interesting one because there's so little fuss about it. I think there should be. It's a day when the intersection between the day-to-day and the year-to-year-- different "<a href="https://irishpapist.blogspot.com/2019/04/streams-of-time.html">streams of time</a>", that is-- comes to the fore. A mysterious liminal space, like a crossroads or a lobby.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Perhaps it should be a day when we all look back on the last four years (or however long it's been since the last leap day). This could be the subject of articles, TV and radio shows, podcasts, etc.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Or perhaps we should have leaping competitions. Or leaping dances. Or eat salmon, which is well-known for leaping. (Vegetarians could have salmon-shaped pastries or chocolates, as indeed could non-vegetarians. Maybe we'll just leave the real fish be.)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I did hear some people talking about it in work today. One person suggested we should have an extra day's pay for an extra day's work. This caused some hilarity and was repeated from person to person.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Happy Leap Day!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW2xHrqDUOtY2cu3thCacmSRt8ngVjH0q24cNF5wBH_n48j7OjJLfuEDm6JXWqeYfWWgJT-BcqzfVf4I4sMKam54ackZpayZgu4Zc54gBp_445y7d7wC7FMUnMgzL4tIDViZvojRTMXOo6GCt-f947fEaqDrj85PHTdqaGk8B9K1PT0-Li0D2clwVFQgU/s703/Marilyn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="557" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW2xHrqDUOtY2cu3thCacmSRt8ngVjH0q24cNF5wBH_n48j7OjJLfuEDm6JXWqeYfWWgJT-BcqzfVf4I4sMKam54ackZpayZgu4Zc54gBp_445y7d7wC7FMUnMgzL4tIDViZvojRTMXOo6GCt-f947fEaqDrj85PHTdqaGk8B9K1PT0-Li0D2clwVFQgU/s320/Marilyn.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-42270447948911578982024-02-28T07:37:00.000-08:002024-02-28T07:37:04.038-08:00Purple for Lent<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Remember I used to turn the blog's background green for St. Patrick's Day? Today I decided to turn it purple for Lent!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">A revived tradition is even better than a tradition, and an expanded tradition is even better than a revived tradition.</span></p>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-72448053518636343202024-02-14T08:44:00.000-08:002024-02-14T08:44:44.144-08:00Ash Wednesday<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>For the day that's in it, a little poem I wrote two years ago:</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Ash Wednesday</span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">The priest rubs ashes on my head<br />And tells me to repent.<br />My sins are very far from dead,<br />My lusts are far from spent.<br /><br />That ancient bonfire burns apace,<br />That blaze of sin and lust.<br />God send me hotter flames of grace <br />Before I fall to dust.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Today is also Valentine's Day. Here's a little poem taken from the novel </i>Weaveworld<i> by Clive Barker, which I think is very appropriate to today's double-bill, and is a pretty good poem. I hope Barker's people won't come after me for copyright violation, especially since it's freely available elsewhere on the 'net.</i></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />One part of love is innocence<br />One part of love is guilt<br />One part the milk, that in a sense<br />Is soured as soon as spilt<br />One part of love is sentiment<br />One part of love is lust<br />One part is the presentiment<br />Of our return to dust.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ooDptenm_frrcBfVREsndH1kpvd8TkbTETUsTgU6Q_YQdzCfdJvu1zPT_NqXlRAitndjcE1NX8yIwdOk37UxGt6r_jTG3-lnJ1uLqfj5XvNJHFJER_ldzYDsjOwx7KnQXiMmmtpvmoTYguntYL0VGJ8G91o6SHhxGXa-r9M8hlINfWxap937zGDE2zU/s1000/Weaveworld.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="664" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ooDptenm_frrcBfVREsndH1kpvd8TkbTETUsTgU6Q_YQdzCfdJvu1zPT_NqXlRAitndjcE1NX8yIwdOk37UxGt6r_jTG3-lnJ1uLqfj5XvNJHFJER_ldzYDsjOwx7KnQXiMmmtpvmoTYguntYL0VGJ8G91o6SHhxGXa-r9M8hlINfWxap937zGDE2zU/w265-h400/Weaveworld.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><br /><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>And, since that's all very grim, here's something that made me laugh yesterday. The full title of a joke-book</i></span><i style="font-family: arial;"> from 1771</i><i style="font-family: arial;">, which I came across on my library's online catalogue:</i></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">The Complete London Jester, or, wit's companion: Containing all the fun and all the humour, all the learning and all the judgment, which have lately slowed from the two universities, from the two theatres, from White's Chocolate-house, from the Bedford Coffee-house; or, from the spouting clubs, and choice spirits clubs in London and Westminster. Including all the fashionable jests, epigrams, merry tales, humorous jokes, bon mots, conundrums, Irish bulls, comical humbugs, droll narrations, smart repartees, new adventures, funny epitaphs, and witticisms. Which will expel care, drown grief, banish the spleen, improve the wit, create mirth, entertain company, and give the reader a light heart, and a chearful countenance. The whole teaching the agreable art of story-telling, and furnishing pieces of wit, for the amusement and improvement of both sexes. The sixth edition. To which is added a genteel collection of the various toasts, sentiments, and Hob-Nobs, now in fashion</span></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-42047001944089566862024-02-08T01:33:00.000-08:002024-02-08T01:42:21.933-08:00Annus Mirabilis (by a Spirit of Vatican II Catholic)<div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>This is just a bit of fun. I am very much a Vatican II Catholic myself-- and even a spirit of Vatican II Catholic (St. John Paul II actually appealed to the "spirit" of the Council on several occasions.) This poem isn't mocking Vatican II, or even its spirit, but those misguided Catholics who expected the Church was going to go full hippy.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>It is, of course, a pastiche of a famous Philip Larkin poem which begins with the words "Sexual intercourse".</i></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>The real Catholic Church began<br />In 1963<br />(Which was just in time for me)<br />Before the contraceptive ban<br />And the second Pope J.P.<br /><br />Up until then there'd only been<br />A lot of mumbling<br />And guilt and shame and bling<br />That started out with Constantine<br />And screwed up everything.<br /><br />Then suddenly the Spirit spoke<br />And everyone felt the same.<br />Goodbye to guilt and shame;<br />God was a thoroughly decent bloke<br />Who'd been given a bad name.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />So life was never better than<br />In 1963<br />(Still years before H.V.)<br />Before the contraceptive ban<br />And the second Pope J.P.</span></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-29113826233216411882024-01-30T02:12:00.000-08:002024-01-30T02:14:41.250-08:00Poem for St. Bridget's Day<span style="font-family: arial;">Your fire has never ceased to burn<br />A glow by which we live and learn<br />And when spring dawns our thoughts return<br />To Bridget, Mary of the Gael.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />You are no pagan deity<br />But God bathed you mysteriously<br />In lights of ancient piety<br />Dear Bridget, Mary of the Gael.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Within the Bridget's Cross we find<br />The fabric of the Gaelic mind<br />Folklife and faith securely twined<br />Dear Bridget, Mary of the Gael.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />With Patrick and with Colmcille<br />You guided us to do God's will<br />In these dark days, be with us still<br />Dear Bridget, Mary of the Gael.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Ar uair ár mbás bí linn go fóill<br />To watch, to comfort, and console<br />Spread out your cloak upon my soul<br />Dear Bridget, Mary of the Gael.<br /></span><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtvWuJ1SAXWOoexppAGQ45sosGXhdXuYCWCoKC3NQ_qofILrv7hkPQoM2uxtCgz78u8xn9lB2gGqmsdy2N0oYwqE1M-fda028WmR5PQ52peh7Jd2SQaocitfJJo1zH6ympT3hR5X5W1TSSY6ImZhsOWo7rqWxlKIuR6_e5ToGQzfBbbpsvhyhd36djnzw/s800/bridget's%20cross.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="777" data-original-width="800" height="389" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtvWuJ1SAXWOoexppAGQ45sosGXhdXuYCWCoKC3NQ_qofILrv7hkPQoM2uxtCgz78u8xn9lB2gGqmsdy2N0oYwqE1M-fda028WmR5PQ52peh7Jd2SQaocitfJJo1zH6ympT3hR5X5W1TSSY6ImZhsOWo7rqWxlKIuR6_e5ToGQzfBbbpsvhyhd36djnzw/w400-h389/bridget's%20cross.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: arial; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div></div></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-61825897273247940012024-01-26T08:48:00.000-08:002024-01-26T08:48:40.949-08:00A Petition for More Public Bathrooms in Dublin<span style="font-family: arial;">This has become something of a hobby-horse of mine in recent year, so I decided to start a petition on the subject.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Who knows whether it will reach the dizzy heights of my previous petition, asking RTE to bring back the national anthem at the end of the day's programming? Five people signed that!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">Can we make it six this time?<a href="https://www.change.org/p/make-shopping-centres-and-shops-provide-toilets-in-dublin-city-centre?fbclid=IwAR2-TgqE-h8ezaa9mCGWPZ8GUGO3W-wC3FsuvddGtQE6KlhLPHI78z4EALg"> Help me out, mates, and sign here.</a></span></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-7083388962845467312024-01-23T03:57:00.000-08:002024-01-23T08:58:56.404-08:00Popes in a Year Email Service: A Recommendation<p><span style="font-family: arial;">For a week now, I've been subscribed to the "Popes in a Year" email from Flocknote, and I recommend it to you.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://flocknote.com/popes/">You can sign up here.</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I've been greatly enjoying these emails, and hopefully benefitting from them. There's a capsule description of one Pope every day. It's just the right length, if it was any longer I might not read them. (I find the jokey tone a bit annoying, but that seems to be the fashion these days.)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Yes, you can just look the Popes up on Wikipedia, or anywhere else, but it's nice to have these pen portraits delivered to your inbox every day.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I'm frequently amazed at how little I know about papal history. I learned only this week that there was an Anti-Pope Christopher who reigned from 903-904 and who was considered a legitimate Pope all the way up to the twentieth century.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">It's also quite astonishing that the Vatican itself concedes that, at certain periods in history, it's impossible to tell who was the legitimate Pope when there are various claimants.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">There's a great deal of discussion on the nature and limits of the papacy these days. Learning more about papal history can only help us in navigating such debates, whether as participants or as audience.</span></p>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-58819329616911449742024-01-18T06:17:00.000-08:002024-01-18T06:22:15.432-08:00My Talk at the Library Staff Day<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>On Tuesday I gave a talk at the annual library Staff Day. The library Staff Day has become an institution and a tradition in its own right. I've just delved into my diary and found that the first one happened in 2014. I've often been on the organizing committee for the event, including this year. This is the first time I've given a talk.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>UCD Library is spread over one main library (the James Joyce Library, where I work) and four branch libraries-- the veterinary science library, the architecture library, the health sciences library, and the business studies library. They're all on the Belfield campus apart from the business sciences library, which is in UCD's other campus in Blackrock.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Between the five different locations and the fact that people work in different departments, the staff is quite dispersed. So the Staff Day is one day in the year when the whole staff gets together. The day usually starts with a "State of the Library" address by a librarian, and often an address by someone high up on the university hierarchy, like the Deputy President. Inevitably we're told what wonderful work we're all doing and how important the library is to UCD.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>After that there are talks on other subjects, some library-related, some not. In previous years we've had guest speakers, though we didn't this year. There's usually a nice lunch, a fun quiz for people who want to take it, and activities like Scrabble or tai chi.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>This year the decision was made to round the day off with "lightning talks" by library staff. We could talk on whatever we wanted.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>I chose to talk on the subject of Ivy Day, which will be explained in the transcript below. (I always read from a script.)</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>It's a strange thing. I don't really get very nervous about speaking in public. I do get nervous to some extent. Five or ten minutes before, my heart is hammering. But once I get up there I'm usually OK, and even enjoy the experience.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>In contrast, I dread the coffee breaks at events like this. Just as I dread "coffee mornings", or "finger food" parties, or any social occasion where people are "mingling" and "circulating". Just walking up to someone and starting to talk to them randomly has never been easy to me.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Even with people I know! I have different strategies for dealing with this. Sometimes I actually pre-arrange with people to go and chat with me, so I'm not standing on my own. Sometimes I go find a corner to sit and read. Sometimes I get so sick of the whole thing that I stand in the middle of the floor and sip my tea, not even making an effort. (Very often this results in somebody coming to chat to me, which is fine.)</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Anyway, the talk went down very well, for which I'm grateful. Here it is. I began with some poetry, which will surprise none of my readers here:</i></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">Come gather round me, Parnellites,<br />And praise our chosen man,<br />Stand upright on your legs awhile,<br />Stand upright while you can,<br />For soon we lie where he is laid<br />And he is underground;<br />Come fill up all those glasses<br />And pass the bottle round.<br /><br />And here's a cogent reason<br />And I have many more,<br />He fought the might of England<br />And saved the Irish poor,<br />Whatever good a farmer's got<br />He brought it all to pass;<br />And here's another reason,<br />That Parnell loved a lass.<br /><br />And here's a final reason,<br />He was of such a kind<br />That every man that sings a song<br />Keeps Parnell in his mind<br />For Parnell was a proud man,<br />No prouder trod the ground,<br />And a proud man's a lovely man<br />So pass the bottle round.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVRAZbV5kYT0czXB35eh8x1BWgz-XM-u_LHLYMl-ceaZI0jv3HVabcr_WPCaWQmB_0ao0PMfvPWV5-fiV2scqz5N3zKci4gY2PEHu4oHfvg8CdVSoQv7JSkhhWDnY6vjdv7qSOieeM_fejA5PvWuAxjDjp44uexnge2WHlYlUOACA2mvJBIcXTEygKb7o/s400/Jean%20Luc%20Picard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVRAZbV5kYT0czXB35eh8x1BWgz-XM-u_LHLYMl-ceaZI0jv3HVabcr_WPCaWQmB_0ao0PMfvPWV5-fiV2scqz5N3zKci4gY2PEHu4oHfvg8CdVSoQv7JSkhhWDnY6vjdv7qSOieeM_fejA5PvWuAxjDjp44uexnge2WHlYlUOACA2mvJBIcXTEygKb7o/w400-h300/Jean%20Luc%20Picard.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">There’s never a bad reason to recite Yeats. Those verses are from “Come Gather Round Me Parnellites”, a poem Yeats wrote in 1936, a few years before his death. As we all know, the Parnellites and the anti-Parnellites were factions that emerged in Ireland after the fall of Charles Stewart Parnell in 1890, when he was revealed to be having an affair with a married woman. The split has left quite a distinguished literary legacy, which includes this poem and the famous Christmas dinner scene in <i>Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man</i> by James Joyce.<br /><br />Parnell died a year later and his funeral, on the sixth of October, was attended by an estimated crowd of two hundred thousand. He was buried in Glasnevin cemetery and the crowd took ivy from the cemetery walls and put it in their lapels. This led to the sixth of October being commemorated as Ivy Day.<br /><br />Rather incredibly, there’s been an Ivy Day commemoration in Glasnevin Cemetery every year since Parnell died. Since I first learned about this, a few years ago, I’ve been meaning to attend, but one thing or another prevented me. I finally succeeded last year.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaQ1V7vuQJfiHuB4XatyZOm1omyVZHbhor6QJ-FMF0AzXBnzr4K8fs_lzPWy_OB1zpm8LxIjnLIUo70ozlpsKjImIefL0RnJ5kG4GnQDiyvy3Ln1aiTHsOi64PVKgMLr2WF60GHs8NpKzbID3ZXLpDNYN_s8IDY1O0os_Nnlr9mS_e7FVWZV5tvXQbI2s/s4000/bagpipes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaQ1V7vuQJfiHuB4XatyZOm1omyVZHbhor6QJ-FMF0AzXBnzr4K8fs_lzPWy_OB1zpm8LxIjnLIUo70ozlpsKjImIefL0RnJ5kG4GnQDiyvy3Ln1aiTHsOi64PVKgMLr2WF60GHs8NpKzbID3ZXLpDNYN_s8IDY1O0os_Nnlr9mS_e7FVWZV5tvXQbI2s/w300-h400/bagpipes.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />“Low key” would be an understatement to describe it. I was there an hour ahead of time, to avoid the rush. Only the presence of a makeshift podium and some workmen sitting on the fence around the grave indicated anything would happen. About fifteen minutes before kick-off, a few elderly people drifted in. The sound of bag-pipes was heard at the cemetery gates at ten to twelve. Within a few minutes, a small gathering had assembled, a wreath had been laid on the grave, and former Fianna Fáil TD Martin Mansergh gave a speech about political plularism. I was given a sprig of ivy by one of the members of the Parnell Society, who all seemed surprised but pleased at my presence. I’d guess there were fewer than fifty people there, and they all seemed to know each other.<br /><br />Why did I feel such an urge to go? It’s not that I’m particularly keen on Charles Stewart Parnell. I expect I would have sided with the bishops and been an anti-Parnellite back in the day. No, I had another reason.<br /><br />I have to admit to a certain anxiety that gnaws at me, and has done for many many years. I have a dread of homogenization, of globalization, of a consumerist monoculture flattening all the precious diversity of the earth. A world of MacDonalds and Starbucks and Netflix. Where every place looks like every other, and where every day looks like every other, aside from the ever-expanding commercialized frenzies of Christmas and Valentine’s Day and Halloween. A world of everything everywhere all at once, which doesn’t leave much room for the national, the regional, the local, the seasonal, or the distinctive, unless you flee to the farms of the Amish and the Mennonites.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEfMhEo0MNv_jgLPRfUcUfr9OkU0kVtp0BHlhoXlfjDX_-BMyzt1YKnElpBUuy-uZc3UE7dPAxnBUZn-4cDLypSYcr4kyqba-h30fNp-64q5TMoV_LeCLPMUNWcuyFyJr7bQCLfNqZYsYlDS8ZyKbyJ488snglH-B7UhSjT9G2nSFIj7d-Y3prit0i8mA/s500/shop-centre.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="313" data-original-width="500" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEfMhEo0MNv_jgLPRfUcUfr9OkU0kVtp0BHlhoXlfjDX_-BMyzt1YKnElpBUuy-uZc3UE7dPAxnBUZn-4cDLypSYcr4kyqba-h30fNp-64q5TMoV_LeCLPMUNWcuyFyJr7bQCLfNqZYsYlDS8ZyKbyJ488snglH-B7UhSjT9G2nSFIj7d-Y3prit0i8mA/w400-h250/shop-centre.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I worry about this every minute of every day, including when I’m asleep or running for a bus.<br /><br />Is this actually happening? It’s very hard to tell objectively. We are always in danger of confirmation bias, the same way everyone thinks good music stopped being made after their own youth. There are even some counter-indications. For instance, Cornish was considered a dead language until recently, when people started to learn it and speak it again. Then there’s the internet. In the heyday of TV and radio, a few editors decided what millions and millions of people did with their leisure hours. Now you can log onto a rubber duck lover internet forum, or a flat earth discussion group, or whatever you want.<br /><br />Despite all this, many observers seem to agree that the world is getting more and more samey. For instance, though the news about Cornish is encouraging, it’s estimated that ninety per cent of the currently spoken languages will be extinct by 2050.<br /><br />So, just in case, I propose that we all do as I did this year, and find some equivalent of Ivy Day to support. Memorize some folk ballads, and sing them to your embarrassed friends and family. Re-introduce some old pub game to your local, if you can drag people away from their smartphones. Get your kids to say “Help the Hallowe’en Party” instead of “Trick or Treat”. Hold a bonfire and eat a bowl of goodie on St. John’s Eve. Or even come with me to the next Ivy Day. As library staff, we spend all our working lives preserving things. What’s the point if we never revive anything?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGxbmeEpx9FsS5hqryJcgPdPGkT6rTGbavFejPCj-m8vZeIs_mPsAbn8CHDKjp86LWeRBGqVGyuAGSAupD-I1Y0yE7oDoXAgEsbEjrS4XEYQvIf2BHfFcdjovw8RSJXxN71ji4n9Jm0VbNuB-Jr_4Mge8U9wEaO7zE3dBmQgoBa9ZmCsiR9rX1cYsE4Ok/s1280/shove.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGxbmeEpx9FsS5hqryJcgPdPGkT6rTGbavFejPCj-m8vZeIs_mPsAbn8CHDKjp86LWeRBGqVGyuAGSAupD-I1Y0yE7oDoXAgEsbEjrS4XEYQvIf2BHfFcdjovw8RSJXxN71ji4n9Jm0VbNuB-Jr_4Mge8U9wEaO7zE3dBmQgoBa9ZmCsiR9rX1cYsE4Ok/w400-h225/shove.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>I’ll leave the last word to Yeats, who deserves the last word on everything:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />The Bishops and the party<br />That tragic story made,<br />A husband that had sold his wife<br />And after that betrayed;<br />But stories that live longest<br />Are sung above the glass,<br />And Parnell loved his country<br />And Parnell loved his lass.</span><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>Go raibh maith agaibh.</i></span></p></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-38995282235883887782024-01-08T07:17:00.000-08:002024-01-08T07:22:42.845-08:00Some Christmas Leftovers<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Well, I'm back from my Christmas break. I hope all my readers had a good Christmas and New Year.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Here's something I posted on Facebook during the break, purely as a kick-off for 2024.</span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>I have long been of the opinion that the "in-betweeny" moments of life are the best.</i></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br />Yesterday our neighbours, literally across the hall, who we've only become friendly with recently, treated us to Christmas Eve dinner at their apartment. It was delicious. Then we went to the Blessed Sacrament Chapel in Bachelor's Walk for Midnight Mass actually at midnight. A cup of tea upstairs afterwards.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br />Then this morning, Christmas Day Mass in UCD chapel.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br />Then breakfast in our neighbours' apartment, on the very extensive leftovers from the dinner. </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Just with the husband, as the wife is working today.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br />Leftovers are always delicious and it was very peaceful and relaxed, sitting looking out the window and eating a late and ample breakfast, having meandering and easy conversation. Those low-key moments always seem like the nicest to me. I mean, I like formality and bustle and occasion and a sense of event. But I like the respite from it, the contrast to it, even more.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br />Happy Christmas!</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiez_iu2Cfte2rUZUzhnR_g2cuPCQVWqoAjOKBejcArG2Er5-gQZLHu3sDTn6gsimq0tgmV97mzrGFQFZ9_tLhlelfPKtVEeQJCu2dmu7OQpzYY3wfs_cYjXWo6sTIC0nJ2PTBkI0RX49thrHJgW6s3BNOtZQOR6HGffg8kYcr4EdBDLOqwq6FDps5HIbk/s1024/turkey-toastie.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiez_iu2Cfte2rUZUzhnR_g2cuPCQVWqoAjOKBejcArG2Er5-gQZLHu3sDTn6gsimq0tgmV97mzrGFQFZ9_tLhlelfPKtVEeQJCu2dmu7OQpzYY3wfs_cYjXWo6sTIC0nJ2PTBkI0RX49thrHJgW6s3BNOtZQOR6HGffg8kYcr4EdBDLOqwq6FDps5HIbk/w400-h300/turkey-toastie.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">And Happy New Year! This is the thirteenth year of this blog!</span></div><div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="x168nmei x13lgxp2 x30kzoy x9jhf4c x6ikm8r x10wlt62" data-visualcompletion="ignore-dynamic" style="border-radius: 0px 0px 8px 8px; font-family: inherit; overflow: hidden;"><div style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="x1n2onr6" style="font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><div class="x6s0dn4 xi81zsa x78zum5 x6prxxf x13a6bvl xvq8zen xdj266r xktsk01 xat24cr x1d52u69 x889kno x4uap5 x1a8lsjc xkhd6sd xdppsyt" style="align-items: center; border-bottom: 1px solid var(--divider); color: var(--secondary-text); display: flex; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.9375rem; justify-content: flex-end; line-height: 1.3333; margin: 0px 16px; padding: 10px 0px;"><div class="x6s0dn4 x78zum5 x1iyjqo2 x6ikm8r x10wlt62" style="align-items: center; background-color: white; color: #65676b; display: flex; flex-grow: 1; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; overflow: hidden;"><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt x1jfb8zj xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j" style="align-items: inherit; align-self: inherit; display: inherit; flex-direction: inherit; flex: inherit; font-family: inherit; height: inherit; max-height: inherit; max-width: inherit; min-height: inherit; min-width: inherit; place-content: inherit; width: inherit;"><div class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1o1ewxj x3x9cwd x1e5q0jg x13rtm0m x1n2onr6 x87ps6o x1lku1pv x1a2a7pz x1heor9g xnl1qt8 x6ikm8r x10wlt62 x1vjfegm x1lliihq" role="button" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-radius: inherit; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: inherit; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; max-height: 1.3333em; outline: none; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: relative; text-align: inherit; touch-action: manipulation; user-select: none; z-index: 1;" tabindex="0"><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="x1e558r4" style="font-family: inherit; padding-left: 4px;"><br /></span></span></div></div></span></div></div><div class="x9f619 x1n2onr6 x1ja2u2z x78zum5 x2lah0s x1qughib x1qjc9v5 xozqiw3 x1q0g3np xykv574 xbmpl8g x4cne27 xifccgj" style="align-items: stretch; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #65676b; display: flex; flex-flow: row; flex-shrink: 0; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; justify-content: space-between; margin: -6px; position: relative; z-index: 0;"></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-44182420775269393752023-12-20T09:39:00.000-08:002023-12-20T09:48:45.835-08:00Happy Christmas<p><span style="font-family: arial;">As Advent draws to a climax, I think it's time to wish my readers <i>Nollaig Shona Daoibh </i>as I probably won't post again between now and 2024.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">It's been a strange year. Much of it was occupied with accommodation woes which, when told about them, provoke many people to say things like: "You should write a book about that", "You should make a podcast about that", or even stronger statements which I won't reproduce here.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Thankfully myself and Michelle are now safely back under the roof where we began the year, after several weeks spent sleeping in a hallway some months ago. We were the beneficiaries of extraordinary kindness from neighbours and friends, for which I am very grateful.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The year also involved getting caught up in a riot in O'Connell Street, and soon after that, finding myself a guest in Áras an Uachtaráin. So definitely a mixed year.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The Francis Wars continue in the Catholic Church. For my part, I'm always going to be loyal to the Pope and the Magisterium, perhaps even erring on the side of loyalty. But I think we could all have a lot more charity when it comes to such debates. I think many people come to very different positions with equally good intentions, following their conscience in good faith and striving to be loyal to the teaching of the Church.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">God bless Pope Francis, God bless those who feel called in conscience to constructive criticism of him, God bless those (on both sides) who have strayed into bitterness and acrimony, God bless all of us.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Meanwhile, in our troubled world, the carnage continues in the Ukraine and Gaza. May the year 2024 bring peace, or at least an improvement, to these afflicted lands. And thank God that (relative) peace holds in Northern Ireland, and that we haven't seen a return to the horror of the Troubles.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In Ireland, the government becomes ever more authoritarian, seeking to clamp down on free speech and civil freedoms and to impose their woke agenda on the country. We all need to push back against this as much as we reasonably can. Thank God for people such as Professor Gerard Casey who are leading the defence of freedom. You should follow him on Twitter (or X, if you prefer).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The library is closing on Friday. I always get a bit sad as the holidays draw in. In truth I probably like Advent more than I like Christmas. I like the trees, the lights, the chocolates, the strangers wishing each other Happy Christmas. I like the public aspect.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I'm going to end with a Christmas poem which was the first poem I ever sent Michelle, indeed one of our very first communications. It wasn't written anywhere near Christmas. It may not be a great poem but I like it for sentimental reasons, and also because I smuggled lots of my favourite words into it. I'm sure I've posted it before. Happy Christmas!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">(The image below is the crib in the church in UCD.)</span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">On a Christmas Bauble<br /><br />Gaze into the flickering flame<br />Of a homely hearth<br />Gaze through the world-creating frame<br />Of any window on the Earth.<br />Gaze in a grey or a hazel eye;<br />Gaze all night at the spangled sky;<br />But gaze at last, for a greater joy,<br />At the glow of a Christmas bauble.<br /><br />This is the very mirror of mirth;<br />A light to proclaim<br />A winter's tale of a Virgin Birth<br />Making the world a fantastic game.<br />"God is the giddiest thought of all",<br />Says the tinsel hanging on the wall<br />And the twinkling of that jolly ball,<br />The glow of a Christmas bauble.<br /><br />The season that bears the Holy Name<br />Is sending forth<br />The tidings we were born to proclaim;<br />The infinite worth<br />Of the soul of man, and the world of things;<br />The wild delight of all carollings<br />For the happiest hymn to the King of Kings<br />Is the glow of a Christmas bauble.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7lkYf9BJSEmahNLiqu3HhhOQuYAKAd8gBLHM5LBZ0PgQYu_kQ1pfHZHQyleu3XdL2uMZ67TfplvtjXcy3ZN0robDK4MkSRS7VaBeDa0XiDz2KDL3fCaslbzdbnB5rzb6qhxt5vAQcELRlEf4fayoxQf0weAKhIMaIG1K24K4pFdOrS1vBNcR4TkSWIwg/s2048/Crib.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7lkYf9BJSEmahNLiqu3HhhOQuYAKAd8gBLHM5LBZ0PgQYu_kQ1pfHZHQyleu3XdL2uMZ67TfplvtjXcy3ZN0robDK4MkSRS7VaBeDa0XiDz2KDL3fCaslbzdbnB5rzb6qhxt5vAQcELRlEf4fayoxQf0weAKhIMaIG1K24K4pFdOrS1vBNcR4TkSWIwg/w400-h300/Crib.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-23974267718789273522023-12-18T03:49:00.000-08:002023-12-18T03:51:59.609-08:00The Burning Babe, with a Sting in the Tale<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Anyone who reads this blog (and I'm grateful to them all) knows that I'm a sucker for traditions, and that the Christmas tradition on <i>Irish Papist</i> is to post St. Robert Southwell's great Christmas poem "The Burning Babe".</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">But tradition and innovation don't have to be mortal enemies!<br /><br />This year, rather than simply posting the text, I am inviting my good friend Sting to give his rendition. Afterwards we are having mince pies and a sing-along. Dirk Benedict might show up as well. You can never tell with Dirk.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">You can listen to it <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U5u4u7jeVfM">here</a>.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJAsGJtVv75_-anV0wVhW_S3FFS-WryywXlI3-NGQuRGM3DWJRvNvYLfu-GEWWyrtOGezEwz6j1P30M1GXCCszkLYLhBguyAtFPm-xASxd2qQ2dLwjuwHT9BYeHu4ROnRvLSLYADdoDwlgtGW4y_RHfI0WRVbqwUAHZVDj2hgI84lmwgKl7kl0LSu4VyE/s634/Sting.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="634" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJAsGJtVv75_-anV0wVhW_S3FFS-WryywXlI3-NGQuRGM3DWJRvNvYLfu-GEWWyrtOGezEwz6j1P30M1GXCCszkLYLhBguyAtFPm-xASxd2qQ2dLwjuwHT9BYeHu4ROnRvLSLYADdoDwlgtGW4y_RHfI0WRVbqwUAHZVDj2hgI84lmwgKl7kl0LSu4VyE/w400-h234/Sting.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-51073594994996900432023-12-13T03:09:00.000-08:002023-12-13T05:22:51.506-08:00On The Seventieth Anniversary of Our Lady Queen of Peace, Merrion Road<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Our Lady Queen of Peace has been my local church for the last four years or so. Since it's fairly close to UCD I'd often attended it before that, as well. It offers a nine p.m. Mass on Sundays which is very helpful.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">It was opened and blessed by the unfairly much-maligned Dr. John Charles McQuaid on the 13th December 1953. You can read its history <a href="https://merrionroadchurch.ie/parish-history/">here</a>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I wrote this sonnet on the commemoration the other day. I sent it to the parish and got a two-line acknowledgement. Oh, well. My blog readers might enjoy it.</span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">Seventy years ago, the staunch McQuaid<br />Raised up a round tower as our forebears did<br />To boldly show the Faith our forebears hid<br />From Cromwell's soldiers and the Viking's raid.<br />But Satan never sleep; for in that hour<br />Of triumph, new and subtler foes waged war<br />On all our saints and martyrs suffered for<br />And now the land is darkened with their power.<br />The battle never ends; but neither shall<br />The grace the Triune God pours on us cease.<br />Amidst this strife, let us make festival<br />Trusting our Master Christ will bring increase<br />From every wound and woe and seeming fall<br />And let us praise our Lady Queen of Peace.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9qpEuyIxr2OAYgxVdH3lHlgaGbYcyShxx1vkkveCtifnhD3BuWJ-P0Gi8WGMENu1rxCb667w7KeGMCy6VC0tw51waBoJnHVncm8K8v_9B4bQEn3dYuYYjSjUqznlxYQYfGc2fc2JBcB2SKPm3D-za0Uz09tK83FxX8OqIrrmio4pSKpgZuud-yjN75f8/s1024/Queen%20of%20Peace%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9qpEuyIxr2OAYgxVdH3lHlgaGbYcyShxx1vkkveCtifnhD3BuWJ-P0Gi8WGMENu1rxCb667w7KeGMCy6VC0tw51waBoJnHVncm8K8v_9B4bQEn3dYuYYjSjUqznlxYQYfGc2fc2JBcB2SKPm3D-za0Uz09tK83FxX8OqIrrmio4pSKpgZuud-yjN75f8/s320/Queen%20of%20Peace%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi68FN4clLVmcvXV0owKkZP0qPPXUrNoSYk8XAd-trtEr-ye3xTtVZO8n1ylL-T1ClcFLWuZHI4_8HnFnsz1TY3Bre2yn-EmlrRn-trtB5d3RIHshggvPcGEqosNti2rF3SKXp11ijbPVEekrfJ7HKWW7y9ypLjA6ZwaL3iCDr_b0yclWENUBU7xA_l9Kc/s1024/Queen%20of%20Peace%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi68FN4clLVmcvXV0owKkZP0qPPXUrNoSYk8XAd-trtEr-ye3xTtVZO8n1ylL-T1ClcFLWuZHI4_8HnFnsz1TY3Bre2yn-EmlrRn-trtB5d3RIHshggvPcGEqosNti2rF3SKXp11ijbPVEekrfJ7HKWW7y9ypLjA6ZwaL3iCDr_b0yclWENUBU7xA_l9Kc/s320/Queen%20of%20Peace%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-14739935748510718492023-12-08T06:52:00.000-08:002023-12-08T06:52:43.397-08:00For The Feast of the Immaculate Conception<span style="font-family: arial;">The first fall of snow.<br />A candle's pure glow.<br />The white morning mist.<br />A glory unguessed.<br />Bring us to your son<br />Oh, Immaculate one.</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBGNhGnOIVQePzaoDajAcJo8dWPnEbrPaZIHnLkxY2ut_w-JJ_KD9G8IxwtHPjcDobvKTXquLW_wOEeMTG2yLgJ_lg-W5cG_0J-ONAbSKnBaoE8HpbWbe3PfYFophYA_GpBcwBqFHH15nRMU6dFBXaa1-MbMZUwJ3GFJrv7LbTG8W8f4U4Xa41K4qgMc0/s2944/Mary.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1472" data-original-width="2944" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBGNhGnOIVQePzaoDajAcJo8dWPnEbrPaZIHnLkxY2ut_w-JJ_KD9G8IxwtHPjcDobvKTXquLW_wOEeMTG2yLgJ_lg-W5cG_0J-ONAbSKnBaoE8HpbWbe3PfYFophYA_GpBcwBqFHH15nRMU6dFBXaa1-MbMZUwJ3GFJrv7LbTG8W8f4U4Xa41K4qgMc0/w400-h200/Mary.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-58816989777731982572023-12-07T06:53:00.000-08:002023-12-07T06:53:23.461-08:00My Poem in Totus Tuus<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXxXz3g4xZQJyl4G8zDcnnypgwAbpWfYo6RtY35LbJCTZErCbeRWpcCqzWO6MvN99qAECMBQdaJoPi36jUTS7syaQ4I9XZWdyYf710XzWB1RWS0kO7QAkKEmZbnGF6EvrwDRlA_EmnVQNN9TPOyjE9XOgoJS_C1wAtBrI528xNzPTjLpxawOG7YcXhd6A/s2048/Totus%20Tuus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXxXz3g4xZQJyl4G8zDcnnypgwAbpWfYo6RtY35LbJCTZErCbeRWpcCqzWO6MvN99qAECMBQdaJoPi36jUTS7syaQ4I9XZWdyYf710XzWB1RWS0kO7QAkKEmZbnGF6EvrwDRlA_EmnVQNN9TPOyjE9XOgoJS_C1wAtBrI528xNzPTjLpxawOG7YcXhd6A/w300-h400/Totus%20Tuus.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><p>My poem "Father G" has appeared in the Christmas edition of <i>Totus Tuus</i> magazine, edition 35.</p><p>It's a comic-serious poem and all of it is taken from real life, down to the last detail.</p><p>Speaking of poetry...</p><p>A new colleague in the library said to me today: "There are some good books in the book return."<br /><br />I was feeling a bit feisty so I said: "The only good books are poetry. Everything else is just entertainment."</p><p>An exaggeration, of course, but not an entirely unjustified one. There followed my usual twenty-minute spiel on the decline of poetry (can be extended on request, or even without request).</p><p>Long before TikTok or reality TV or Beavis and Butthead, cultural decline had already well set in. Give the poor millennials a break. We are all savages these days.</p></span><p></p>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-88430655135704335522023-11-29T02:24:00.000-08:002023-11-29T02:24:15.536-08:00A Few Recent Facebook Posts<span style="font-family: arial;">It's funny the influence a book can have on you. When I was in my early twenties I read The Open Society and Its Enemies by Karl Popper. (Only volume one, the library didn't have volume two.) Ever since then I've never wavered in my belief in liberal democracy, and especially that, in POLITICAL life, "freedom from" has to be more important than "freedom to".</span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ3cd9fuJVujF7IQzU67plVPXR9pV5i_4FeC4hUDcvKN4aLGqL_HCwZ4Wxfm7q2bbc0hx9H96Ik7j3phDB2UrQNTc_rdi_sTPoxs2jXsUyBDKFiVGUFkpRWUR8GtH-7efEOeiHsWCvqsSV94CCL47jXIxnm8ez0k7a1Lq8uth-KPvCZu6CIzYhc9XT9SM/s768/Dirk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ3cd9fuJVujF7IQzU67plVPXR9pV5i_4FeC4hUDcvKN4aLGqL_HCwZ4Wxfm7q2bbc0hx9H96Ik7j3phDB2UrQNTc_rdi_sTPoxs2jXsUyBDKFiVGUFkpRWUR8GtH-7efEOeiHsWCvqsSV94CCL47jXIxnm8ez0k7a1Lq8uth-KPvCZu6CIzYhc9XT9SM/w400-h300/Dirk.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Face.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>I used to watch Open University programmes a lot. For my American friends, they were educational programmes which were shown in the early hours on British TV. The idea was that you could video-tape them and watch them at your leisure. They were a part of a distance learning initiative which could lead to actual qualifications.</i></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br />Anyway, one such programme was a whole documentary on the short poem The Tyger by William Blake, which went into great detail on its meaning and possible associations. I was very excited by this.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbqDdAyo662mWUJGihDt-tvusoMz1GyVhITev4IzsPsaVQqq428hYFsBlRfy4izdDX7zPrxbPDkZZuhlsuDtsuL6Tyrgpaxjhau8jnSKH94Q4LLUFJz2FGK3kAZSTBfZnXLELJOmnfpxIulXe4aAqhd9kBeo9BddkpnlndJiD_GIB9kbgpDanVFrTFxg0/s1200/inspiration-from-the-saints-angelico-press-29579744936134_1200x1200.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="776" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbqDdAyo662mWUJGihDt-tvusoMz1GyVhITev4IzsPsaVQqq428hYFsBlRfy4izdDX7zPrxbPDkZZuhlsuDtsuL6Tyrgpaxjhau8jnSKH94Q4LLUFJz2FGK3kAZSTBfZnXLELJOmnfpxIulXe4aAqhd9kBeo9BddkpnlndJiD_GIB9kbgpDanVFrTFxg0/w259-h400/inspiration-from-the-saints-angelico-press-29579744936134_1200x1200.webp" width="259" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Book.</td></tr></tbody></table></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><i>That's what I mean when I lament poetry's place in modern culture. The lack of that sort of thing. As opposed to the very occasional mention of poetry in general on some arts show.<br />If the coverage of the arts (in the media but also in general social intercourse) were to be compared to sports coverage, poetry would be equivalent to badminton or volleyball or fencing. I think it should be equivalent to rugby or soccer or cricket instead.</i><br /><br />Here's a possibly odd question. How important is atmosphere to you? I mean it in the colloquial rather than the scientific sense.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />I'm so preoccupied with atmosphere that it often strikes me as abnormal. I attach atmospheres to times, places, people, activities etc. and have to remind myself that these atmospheres are (most often) private constructions of my own and not "out there". I get as upset about this (repeated) realization as a kid might get in learning the secret of Santa. I don't know how normal or abnormal that is. I have to remind myself, for instance, when I look at an inky, granulated photo from the seventies, that it wasn't actually inky and granulated in reality. In the same way, perhaps, that historians remind us that the milky white statues we associate with ancient Greece were actually painted.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />My fear is that reality is, after all, just a grid of points in time and space, none of which are really any different from each other. That this is the awakening that awaits; "the desolation of reality", as Yeats said. It feels like sitting in a bath and slowly feeling the bathwater go cold. Except in this case you only ever imagined it was warm.<br /><br /><i>I don't know why people are so down on Black Friday. I try to get into the spirit. I put up pictures of Gordon Gekko, Margaret Thatcher, and Milton Friedman, hang wreaths of tinsel dollar signs from the ceiling, and play classics such as "Ding Dong, Dividends are High", "Away in a Merger", and "Closing Bells". It's great.<br /></i><br />I've noticed that conversation seems to flourish best between the extremes of subjectivism and objectivity (or perhaps absolutism).</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />It seems to me that no conversation is duller than a conversation about food, because once you've said you like or dislike a food, where else is there to go? I suppose you could talk about nutrition or foodways or cooking, but just talking about the experience of eating, in my view, is deadly dull after a minute or two.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />That's pure subjectivism, but pure objectivity (or the delusion thereof) is just as bad. Talking to someone who thinks he knows all the answers is insupportable. Or there might be the other sort of "objective" conversation: matter-of-fact discussions about commuting routes or itineraries or whatever. Some people have an endless fascination with these, unless they are just making conversation.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />But pleasurable conversation lives in the temperate zone between the two extremes, in my view.<br /><br /><i>Over the past few days I've been reading ecclesiastical history, broadly construed. First an excellent little book about martyrs of the Third Reich. Also a lot of stuff about Irish priests in the last few centuries.<br /><br />I find ecclesiastical and Catholic history extremely satisfying. I sometimes think it could be the focus of my leisure reading.<br /><br />It's so SOLID. So much of religious and Catholic discourse is so vaporous. I've often finished flicking through some Catholic newspaper or magazine (obviously not any publication any of my Facebook friends are involved in) and thought: "There was nothing in that. I learned nothing".<br /><br />And, in the few years, so many of the things that seemed certain have become unsettled. I'm not assigning any value to that right now. Perhaps there was too much conservative triumphalism and intellectualism before 2013. Perhaps not. Time will tell. I'm applying the Gemaliel principle.<br /><br />Anyway, history is solid, beyond the inevitable debates about particulars. It's like the laboratory of the Holy Spirit in action. Now if I could develop some idea of where the Irish diocese are located I'd be doing well...</i><br /><br />I generally dislike ostentation in worship, like long theatrical silences from the altar. But sometimes it's impossible not to be moved. There has been a young woman in UCD church the last two days who bows low with her forehead on the ground, in the front pew, for much of the Mass. She crawls to receive Communion on her knees.<br /><br />This afternoon, after Mass, the Eucharist was exposed and the priest said Exposition would go on till five. This was after 12:05 Mass. I decided some time with Jesus was what I desperately needed right now. I went on my afternoon break at four. As I was entering, someone was leaving and the church was empty. I thought: "Isn't the exposed Eucharist meant to be accompanied at all times?"<br /><br />Then I saw the girl was still there, kneeling on the ground before the altar, so low she had been blocked from my view by the front pew.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><i>There is a subject so immense, so consequential that for some thirty years I have been limbering up to write about it. This is it: music playing in shops.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br />I'm entirely serious. This subject fascinates me, so much so that when I was in my late teens I spent months putting together a poetry collection called "Ambience Music".</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br />Tennyson said that, if he could understand the little flower growing in a crack of the wall, "I should know what God and man is". I feel as though, if I could get to the heart of my fascination with music playing in shops, I would articulate much of what has preoccupied me all my life.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br />The thing about music playing in shops is that possibly nobody is actively listening to it, by its very nature. And the funny thing about this is that, to me, this has always given it a sense of plenitude, of presence, rather than of emptiness or absence. This reaction is involuntary.<br />Hearing a song played in the background gives it (as I instinctively feel, and always have) a prestige far greater than any amount of hype or attention could.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br />But that's rationalisation. More irrationally, when I hear some song playing in the background, it actually seems to me like the expression of some spirit-- the spirit of the people, the spirit of the period, something like that.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br />And, although I'm not just using background music as a metaphor, it certainly is that. A metaphor for so many things.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br />It's such a hard theme to get to grips with, and then there's the question... Is this private fascination of any potential interest to anyone else?</i></span></div></div></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-5279001729305158502023-11-24T09:27:00.000-08:002023-11-24T09:27:10.977-08:00A Dark Night in Dublin<p><span style="font-family: arial;">I was caught up in the madness in Dublin city centre yesterday. Thankfully I avoided injury. I was just trying to make my way to IKEA! (Which I did.)<br /><br />It's the second riot I've unwittingly walked into in Dublin. The first was the Love Ulster riot in 2006. That was nothing compared to this one, though.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Pictures courtesy of my wife.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I pray for safety for all of us on the streets of Dublin, and Ireland.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLtTNTEWAwBYg0iHFljqhJoxxDf83jEKCdVF7Bgapli8rDqPPpU6760AluZtPNvutuoADEZK8lmIR5-a2UCFEbtXWBYA83jXOQMDYd7kRSHS9HhCqVDlezcH8iJUtRDSULpP8NYiF6f3_PFfWiSRJkRk3Fqk-HNVwVzHkSd5Gi8o1RT6Gsyh0Nmt_s6ZE/s2048/Riot%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLtTNTEWAwBYg0iHFljqhJoxxDf83jEKCdVF7Bgapli8rDqPPpU6760AluZtPNvutuoADEZK8lmIR5-a2UCFEbtXWBYA83jXOQMDYd7kRSHS9HhCqVDlezcH8iJUtRDSULpP8NYiF6f3_PFfWiSRJkRk3Fqk-HNVwVzHkSd5Gi8o1RT6Gsyh0Nmt_s6ZE/w300-h400/Riot%202.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWP42jeh1klvgdUpBPy6hxmQb0Sd1SIxEIp4bK4BfmM3C7Cd8oNeUqMZWYRD1Ih5E2ok7_q7T4yBwY7dH1-NPy1DNkMp0IrrgE84_Vt3Uw8xX20VtDWaDgRwtJKff_HdMJ7MehG7VqumhAtfK43fA37eF1E9qp-anfK0aqiLaos4Kz2EEnp6uFbi8NQJw/s2048/Riot%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWP42jeh1klvgdUpBPy6hxmQb0Sd1SIxEIp4bK4BfmM3C7Cd8oNeUqMZWYRD1Ih5E2ok7_q7T4yBwY7dH1-NPy1DNkMp0IrrgE84_Vt3Uw8xX20VtDWaDgRwtJKff_HdMJ7MehG7VqumhAtfK43fA37eF1E9qp-anfK0aqiLaos4Kz2EEnp6uFbi8NQJw/w300-h400/Riot%203.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiR0Fs7QPYJZOMI3QXIws5EbSdRMuVHPLGza76-IOLielVJZdB1425DLPaHawSTaYXTE17MyOvwaSFqxslUP6r3_A7WyXXidO4S4tGg-PelgSQCi3jr_n2TBuagiEI2Q7Jp01DZzMennPvdVtG0zIkdosCOjgf9MGMa-fPcMcHIFkPaQAXJXsK-vhNqGE/s2048/Riot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiR0Fs7QPYJZOMI3QXIws5EbSdRMuVHPLGza76-IOLielVJZdB1425DLPaHawSTaYXTE17MyOvwaSFqxslUP6r3_A7WyXXidO4S4tGg-PelgSQCi3jr_n2TBuagiEI2Q7Jp01DZzMennPvdVtG0zIkdosCOjgf9MGMa-fPcMcHIFkPaQAXJXsK-vhNqGE/w300-h400/Riot.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-87764453295459238922023-11-16T05:54:00.000-08:002023-11-16T05:59:47.230-08:00Filler Poem: Final Call<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Things are crazy with me right now, so here's a poem from my archives to keep the blog ticking over. I wrote it in 2005, which was a bad year.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">It's a sad poem, so sad I've rarely re-read it. It wasn't expressing an actual experience. I wrote a lot of poems back then which were my attempts to imaginatively project myself into other peoples' situations. I now regard this as a mistake. Others can do it. I can't.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I honestly don't know if there's any value to straightforwardly sad poems such as this one. I never listen to "She's Leaving Home" or "Eleanor Rigby" because they're just too sad. If poetry and art doesn't uplift and encourage, I don't see any point to it. I'm a melancholic by temperament, and an optimist by philosophy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">On a technical note, I'm proud of the short line in the middle stanza.</span></p><span style="font-family: arial;">The hardest thing to bear of all<br />Was her father making plans<br />On the morning of her final call.<br />The whirring of those fans<br />The shadow of the last brick wall, </span><div><span style="font-family: arial;">The doctors, and the scans,<br /><br />Were little things compared to this;<br />An old man’s childish smile<br />And eyes alive with the hope of bliss<br />In a little while.<br />The see-you-tomorrow in his kiss<br />So innocent of her guile.<br /><br />He wouldn’t want to know. But still<br />Those eyes watch her all night.<br />His voice repeats <i>we will, we will</i><br />His eyes fill with delight<br />Seeing the world just past the hill<br />Where things will all come right.</span><div><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div></div>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-8677040918793480692023-11-09T03:41:00.003-08:002023-11-09T03:41:49.486-08:00Our Lady of Zeitoun<p><span style="font-family: arial;">I'm a regular listener of the podcast <i>Jimmy Akin's Mysterious World </i>(although I tend to follow it intermittently rather than constantly, as I do with many blogs, podcasts and YouTube channel).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">The latest episode is a real cracker. It examines the Marian apparitions in Zeitoun, Egypt, which began in 1968...and went on for three years!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I've heard very little about these apparitions in the past, and it's amazing stuff. Give it a listen.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ikdDzR-5EA8" width="320" youtube-src-id="ikdDzR-5EA8"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-56022144518605606992023-11-06T08:34:00.003-08:002023-11-06T08:34:44.395-08:00Happy Feast of All Irish Saints!<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Today is the Feast of All Irish Saints, a feast that was introduced by Pope Benedict XV in 1921. I wonder if the timing had anything to do with the War of Independence that was raging at the time?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I only learned about this feast in recent years.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">There was an extraordinary dearth of Irish canonisations between the days of sainthood by acclimation, and when St. Oliver Plunkett was raised to the altars in 1975. Thankfully, things have picked up since...</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Personally, I must admit, I have very little interest in most of the Irish saints. I'm mostly interested in modern saints. Ancient Irish saints are shrouded in a fog of legend, folklore, and supposition. All wonderful things in their own way, but I'd rather read about saints who are documented and in clearer focus. I find it easier to relate to them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">None of this means I don't appreciate the tradition of Irish sanctity. It's a shimmering horizon against which we live our faith lives, and I'm very grateful it's there. I am grateful for all the obscure saints who lend their names to our villages, churches and neighbourhoods, including St. Pappan who is (sort of) the local saint of Ballymun.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Saints of Ireland, pray for us!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3CGb1BynR45QN8l0uWOuDgY2FmRgCOAO8tzJZHEyUvMntitxMv4Dahc4mS72XoLMvA-aikA9dJMu0Lhi0VLp3W44NZQuecy9uxn6jxY2A2NmzfRJqgAuU07y17qi1fOndL72EHaXb8WQiLCLqunNsYlhk1klCd69mNhLWLBpH1mR3MrzPCZQ5TLVA0vM/s700/irish-saints.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="700" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3CGb1BynR45QN8l0uWOuDgY2FmRgCOAO8tzJZHEyUvMntitxMv4Dahc4mS72XoLMvA-aikA9dJMu0Lhi0VLp3W44NZQuecy9uxn6jxY2A2NmzfRJqgAuU07y17qi1fOndL72EHaXb8WQiLCLqunNsYlhk1klCd69mNhLWLBpH1mR3MrzPCZQ5TLVA0vM/w400-h211/irish-saints.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-77827957093185690702023-11-06T08:06:00.003-08:002023-11-06T08:06:39.082-08:00Deo Gratias!<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Proposals to abolish most of Britain's train ticket offices have been abandoned, after a huge public outcry.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://www.railtech.com/all/2023/11/02/englands-ticket-offices-saved-after-government-aborts-mass-closure-plan/?gdpr=accept">Read about it here.</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">This is a wonderful victory in itself. But imagine if it was the beginning of a fightback against the increasing automation and dehumanization of daily life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://www.breakingnews.ie/ireland/aib-says-it-will-not-proceed-with-cashless-bank-services-after-public-unease-1339574.html">A similar public reaction</a> stopped a recent plan by Allied Irish Banks to make cash unavailable at seventy out of their 170 branches.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">People power works! Let's not forget it!</span></p>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7091756463128804432.post-26871354290733803832023-10-31T07:08:00.006-07:002023-10-31T08:29:09.987-07:00Happy Halloween!<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Try not to have nightmares!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLTMOJVAP5PxeDjo59WU3Vh4oEmqTmnGdudTc9gFEh4sauEULB4NkXSUg13-MhAhXkDmsedasp_wMQqolqvB55ltwcgMHqFdFULrlV0Bir7V7EpqUcCq-Ol9mD8k6LfJBnkmVMAo4jSQJMdht-N0Zin1JRYTGPIs6f9vcfOGtUiUbcd9NkZd2t5mVi39w/s2048/facepaint.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLTMOJVAP5PxeDjo59WU3Vh4oEmqTmnGdudTc9gFEh4sauEULB4NkXSUg13-MhAhXkDmsedasp_wMQqolqvB55ltwcgMHqFdFULrlV0Bir7V7EpqUcCq-Ol9mD8k6LfJBnkmVMAo4jSQJMdht-N0Zin1JRYTGPIs6f9vcfOGtUiUbcd9NkZd2t5mVi39w/w300-h400/facepaint.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Maolsheachlannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09406722311993627528noreply@blogger.com0