Congratulations Nora Fleming!

This week at Wicklow Writers we received some great news! One of our own, Nora Fleming received first prize in the adult section of the Arklow Music Festivals poetry competition. Nora's poem 'The Long Stone' received great comments from Liz Sharkey, the competitions adjudicator. 

Ms Sharkey noted:

'Poetry by its nature is a very personal medium. ... The poetry which stimulates me most is that which creates vivid images, that play within the consciousness and also makes me look at my world differently.' 

Congratulations Nora! You did yourself and us proud!

THE LONG STONE by Nora Fleming

We met in the Wicklow Hills 
Over seven decades now,
A brief moment for you, 
A lifetime for me.
Now you are waiting under the 
laurel tree for the next generation 
and some day I will be but a memory. 

The finest pillar in the nineteenth century, 
You stood straight and tall by the garden gate,
Stonemasons referred to you as 'a beauty',
The best of Wicklow granite.
Decades turned to centuries,
Modernisation slowly creeped in and 
sadly you were replaced by fancy brick.

Now in a sheltered corner, two small 
stones bear your heavy weight,
You were always a landmark
known as the 'long stone'.
A waiting place in the game of 'hide and seek',
A finishing post in the game of 'chase'
And a warm place to relax as one
delved into their favourite book.

After all these years you are there
glittering in your corner like rich diamonds.
The evening sun peeps over the thatch,
Shimmering shadows dance upon you.
You a part of me.
Me a part of you. 
Sometime, soon, in your terms of time,
They will look at you 
To remember me.

Early Facebook

Early Facebook



Pete wandered into Nellie’s.
The usual faces in the usual places
His corner seat waiting. As usual.

‘Story Pete?’
Big weather huh?
Hi Nellie. What’s good?
Y’know, Crab Chow, usual.
‘Sgood. Ok. Nellie smiled.

What news of Fair Lady?
Sheltrin’ in Burton ‘till it blows.
Good. That’s good.

Pete shot the breeze with the boys.
And Nellie. Chow was good.
G’Luck. G’luck Nellie. Tomorrow?

All the friends he needed, waved.
Outside the wind was changing.


Martin Swords
Feb 2014

Lazy Beds

Lazy Beds

Lazy was not the word for it

Hardwon. Backbreacking.

Little enough return for effort

Lumpers. Poor nourishment. Fear and Famine

Ridged soil scratched on unlikely hills

Where hope grew better than food

Overgrassed abandoned now

Sower and Harvester gone to grow in Newfoundland

You did not seek to make a monument

Only a meal, or a grave

Yet your Lazy Beds have left a message

Your unintended story written in the ground

Martin Swords

Feb 2014

During the course of my guided walks in Glendalough I often get asked about The Famine of

1840/50.  I explain something about its impact - before, during and after the event - on Irish

History and Emigration to America. I ask people to look out for Lazy Beds as they tour around

The Irish countryside as a connection with this period.

Just for the day that is in it! Happy Valentine's Day!

Love by Ruth Moore

They both looked into the darkness,
Each others eyes held a different fate.
But did it hold a secret passion
or a pathway of hate.
Into each others arms they lunged.
Their mouths moving slowly but long.
No questions had been answered.
Only a situation prolonged.

*********************************************************************************

The First Evening by Ruth Moore

The flame stretched higher and the mood got softer
As he felt her trembling body in the chilly atmosphere.
His hands moved, searching the contours of her body
Sending her into a World of Utopia.

*********************************************************************************

Monday Evening Meetings post by Ruth Moore

This week's Monday night session's 'homework' is to research or read about the American poet, Billy Collins. Next week, 3 February, we will discuss and present a piece in his style. A quick 'google' of his name brings up a few animated Poetry videos, 'Forgetfulness' and 'the Dead', to name two. Worth a look!

Our recent entry into the 59th Wicklow Federation Drama Festival (noted in a previous blog) was thoroughly enjoyed - even if, in hindsight, it may have been the incorrect platform for our poetic sketch performance. It was great to see the high standard of theatrical performances from a number of the well established local drama groups. The experience was memorable and greatly appreciated.

Just a quick poem from a recent 'Free Writing' session we had at a Monday night meeting. The 'free writing' session lasts for about 15 minutes so the poem is unfinished and needs tidying-up but it is an example of 'on-the-spot' writing. The attempt here was to create a sonnet with the rhyming sequence 'abba , cddc, effe, gg' but you will note I've missed a line! Oops!

'Stepping Stone' 
by Ruth Moore

I've come from lands not far away, 
To this small isle, unknown before.
With eyes ahead, I land on shore.
With patience, focus, for however long I stay. 

I take the work you throw aside,
As this is not my final calling.
The thought of promise - I'm only stalling. 
Day-in, month-out, a passing tide. 

Nine years I have served and paid my way, 
Papers completed - I'm a better 'brand'
As if I were born a part of this land. 

No loyalty or allegiance to this land or home,
For this is but a stepping stone. 

Wicklow Writers make big impression with Poetic Drama

Wicklow Writers Group performed their short Drama 'Listeners' - based on the famous poem
'The Listeners' by Walter De La Mare, in the ICA Wicklow Federation 59th Drama Festival in Glenealy Village Hall on Fri 24th Jan 2014.

 The short drama was written by Wicklow Writer Peter Hickey, and this novel interpretation 
of a famous poem was performed by Wicklow Writers members who played the parts 
of characters and human props eg moon, leaves etc from the poem.

We didn't win, but we made a big impression.

And a great time was had by all !

A Pocketful of Zen

A Pocketful of Zen

She would rather be naked

Or elegantly dressed

But I see her in underwear

I sit and think

The words form just inside my head

No one to listen

John Lennon on the radio

Still alive

Imagine.

The pen does not write

It translates thoughts

Into words

The Poet sees

But does not say

The Poem says

But does not see

Martin Swords

Jan 2014