The History of The Irish...Worldwide
'Would You Ever Think of Coming Home?'
I am surely not the first Irish emigrant to have heard these words from their heartbroken mother. Guilt at the impact of my decision to leave Ireland and grief at the loss of my beloved mother are central themes in my poetry collection "where the lost things go," just published by Salmon Poetry.
As a child growing up in a small village in County Clare "on the wave-washed edge of the world," I was not brought up by one or two people, but by the many hands of a community. Every bump in the path had its history and its meaning.
Having emigrated to Australia 24 years ago, I have noted on my annual visits home the erosion of time on the many haunts of my growing up years -- faces, places and traditions slowly slipping away. In "where the lost things go," I have tried to preserve some of these special aspects of the Ireland I grew up in, a place where ...
Mist rolls off moss-green hills
Where wind-wild ponies thunder
Manes flying as they chase
Their seaward brothers
The following poem, extracted from the book, was first published in The Irish Times last year, resulting in a furore of social media commentary. In it, I acknowledged my guilt and grief, while honouring the memory of my beloved lost mother. I was astonished and moved by the number of people who went out of their way after it was published to share with me their own personal stories. I hope The Wild Geese community will connect with it too...
In memoriam II: The draper*
“The town is dead
Nothing but the wind
Howling down Main Street
And a calf bawling
Outside The Fiddlers”
My mother’s words, not mine
In a letter, kept in a drawer
These long years
She had a way with words
My mother
That’s why they came
The faithful of her following
Leaning in to her over the counter
For an encouraging word
Or the promise of a novena
Long before we had
Local radio
Our town had my mother
Harbinger of the death notices
And the funeral arrangements
Bestower of colloquial wisdom
Bearer of news on all things
Great and small
Who was home
And who hadn’t come
Who had got the Civil Service job
And by what bit of pull
The Councillor’s niece
Smug in her new navy suit
Oblivious to the circulating countersuit
“Would you ever think of coming home?”
Her words would catch me
Unawares
Lips poised at the edge
Of a steaming mug
Igniting a spitfire
Of resentment each time
Then draping me for days
I’d wear it like a horsehair shirt
All the way back
Until the sunshine and the hustle
Had worn it threadbare
This extra bit of baggage
In every emigrant’s case
Their mother’s broken heart
I never thought to ask her
“Would you want me to…?
So I could look out at the rain
Circumnavigating the empty street
And shiver at the wind
Whipping in under the door…?”
I don’t miss that question now
On my annual pilgrimage ‘home’
My father never asks it
Like me, I know he feels it
Hanging in the air
Alongside her absence
I miss my mother
And her way with words
To read more poems from Anne's new collection, go to: "where the lost things go" on salmonpoetry.com
You can also listen to an interview with Anne on Clare FM or read a story about her new book in The Clare Champion.
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Admin Comment by Joe Gannon on July 25, 2017 at 11:25am -
Thanks for posting this, Anne. You relating your story of the pain of emigration put me in mind of the scene in the movie "Brooklyn," when Saoirse Ronan's character, Eilis, tells her mother she was married while she was in the US and is leaving Ireland again after having returned home for a time. I'm sure if you saw the movie the scene resonated with you. My wife and I have been visiting Ireland every year for 10 years now and we feel so at home there that it gives us some insight into the emotions one would feel leaving it having grown up there. Emigration has been the part of the story of the Irish for so long that I think it's written into Irish DNA.
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Comment by Anne Casey on July 25, 2017 at 9:03pm
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Hi Joe, Thanks so much for taking the time to read and comment - really appreciate it. No doubt about it, emigration is part of our DNA, not to mention the sadness and guilt that go with it! But I've also found that emigration has sharpened my appreciation for family and the beauty of Ireland. Delighted to hear you are a regular visitor to the Emerald Isle. It has a way of seeping into your heart!
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Comment by Honora Wright Weaver on July 27, 2017 at 7:39pm
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In the early 90's a friend of mine from Dublin, who had immigrated to America to become a US Marine, told me "Ireland's greatest export has always been her people". I'm looking forward to reading more of your poetry.
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Thank you so much Honora. You can view more poems here whenever you like: http://anne-casey.com/poetry.html Very much appreciate your taking the time to read and respond to my post.
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Comment by Robert Emmett Maguire on July 30, 2017 at 3:36pm
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Many years ago, I had an epiphany about the pain of missing home, a lesson inadvertently taught to me by my Leitrim born and raised father.
Having nothing in Ireland, but the prospect of building roads that led nowhere, he moved to America in 1926. It wasn't until almost 20 years later, at the end of World War Two, that he got the chance to see home again.
He was given a 10 day pass from his Army unit in Italy to go to Ireland. One of the most enduring stories I have of him, related to me by my uncle, was his arrival at the family's homeplace. Seeing his crying mother, he exclamed, "Make up your mind, Mam! You're crying when I leave and crying when I come home!"
For those few days, he walked the hills and fields around his town of Newtowngore, visiting everyone he could.
Then he had to leave. The bitter part of it all was that when he got back to his unit, his idiot of a commanding officer told him that he could have stayed longer.
He never saw Ireland again. He became ill with emphysema and his doctor told him he could not travel to Ireland because the weather would kill him. He had always dreamed of going home with my Mayo born mother, but that's the way.
He did "see" Ireland one more time. When I was living in Europe, I had the chance to visit my family for a month in Ireland. The rest of my year I was in Spain.
When I arrived home in NY, the first words out of my father Patrick's mouth were "So, you were in Spain for a year...tell me about Ireland." Exactly like that.
And that's what we did for hours and hours. About the town, the county, his family, his friends. I got to "bring him home" for at least a little while. It was probably the closest we'd ever been and I finally realize the sacrifice he had made leaving his country of birth for a better life in America.
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Thank you so much for sharing your lovely story about your Dad Robert - very moving and definitely familiar to me in essence. Every good wish, Anne
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