It looked sad and forlorn sitting by the side of the Creamery road as though it knew that it had long been abandoned. I first noticed it one rainy afternoon when I was almost seven years old and I can still vividly recall the sweet scent of wild honeysuckle, hanging heavily on the air that…Continue
One morning, in late summer, a young boy set off eagerly, on his journey of life. Brimming with excitement, his eyes shone with innocent anticipation. He was going to school for the first time! He was going to learn new and wondrous things! The boy had dreamt and looked forward to this day for as long as he could remember, And…Continue
I was lying on the couch one lazy Sunday evening ‘channel surfing,’ and doing my utmost to avoid the news channels. I find that watching the news these days only deepens my brooding sense of melancholia and re-awakens the primal urge to run away, wrap myself in animal skins and take…Continue
Within the written she resides
in quiet assurance of her place.
Lithe and languid, with regal mien,
she glides from the page bearing gifts.
The mantle, flowing through the ages,
envelops her in verity profound.
Gently musing all the while,
in soft tones of…Continue
The next time you make a trans-Atlantic phone call, raise a glass, smile and tip your hat to an ingenious Irishman; a man that Charles Darwin once described as being “like an odious specter.” This man had incurred the wrath of Darwin for daring to oppose…Continue
Added by John Anthony Brennan on August 15, 2016 at 9:30pm — No Comments
Say what you like about him but my ‘oul man could handle a scythe.
Swing it with the easy grace of a matador in a bullring in Barcelona.
Could turn and pivot, sure of foot, like a lithe ballerina on the stage
at the Bolshoi. The grass, defeated with surgical precision, fell in
Added by John Anthony Brennan on August 12, 2016 at 10:00pm — No Comments
Three of Ireland’s well-loved 18th century Gaelic poets lie at rest in the graveyard of Creggan Church, near to my hometown of Crossmaglen, County Armagh. The poets, Filid Art Mc Cooey, Padraig MacAliondain and the rapparee poet Seamus mor MacMurphy sleep under the oaks and elms in the company…Continue
I am Gullion, old as time itself, older than the pre-dawn of life, forged in the crucible of a ring of fire, before man existed. Up here the air is pure and fresh and crisp as the frost of winter’s breath. I’ve seen it all from up here, here by the bottomless lake, here beside the elevated cairns and high burial places.…Continue