West Wind Blows 2feb2025

This program is sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling, offering an affordable and sustainable way to dispose of old furniture and mattresses. The program West Wind Blows features poetry, song, and story. The host Kathleen Faherty introduces a poem by Elizabeth Bishop, highlighting her difficult upbringing and travels. The poem, "In the Waiting Room," describes a moment of epiphany for a seven-year-old Bishop in a dentist's waiting room. She becomes aware of her female identity and her destiny as a woman, feeling overwhelmed by the questions of existence. The program also includes readings of poems by Alberto Rios and William Butler Yeats. This program is kindly sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. Say goodbye to your old furniture and mattress in an affordable, convenient and sustainable way. Call 091-760-877. Hello again and welcome to the West Wind Blows, a weekly program of poetry, song and story. My name is Kathleen Faherty and Bridie Cashin is producer and technician for the program. We'll begin the program with a poem by Elizabeth Bishop. Elizabeth Bishop was an only child born in Worcester, Massachusetts in 1911. Her father died when she was eight months old. Her mother became mentally ill and was confined in a psychiatric institution from 1916 until her death in 1934. Bishop never saw her mother again from the time of her committal. She was raised at first by her maternal grandparents and then by her paternal grandparents and later by an aunt, her mother's sister. She went to boarding school when she was 12 and later to the exclusive Vassar College for Women. During her time at Vassar College in the early 30s, she developed problems with alcohol, problems that persisted for the rest of her life. Her difficult early background probably explains the sense of loneliness and not belonging that's to be found in her poetry. She spent much of her life travelling the world. It's important to remember that Bishop, as well as being a poet, was also a painter. The poem you're about to hear is called In the Waiting Room. This is a typical Bishop poem. She sets the scene in great detail, in matter-of-fact language, and then she describes a moment of sudden intense awareness that she experienced, a moment of epiphany. The setting is a dentist's waiting room where the seven-year-old Bishop is waiting while her Aunt Consuelo is having dental treatment. In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo to keep her dentist's appointment and sat and waited for her in the dentist's waiting room. It was winter. It got dark early. The waiting room was full of grown-up people, arctics and overcoats, lamps and magazines. Notice the realism of the setting, and notice too the simplicity and directness of the language. The adult Bishop has adopted the language of a child. To occupy herself while her Aunt is having her treatment, young Bishop begins to read the National Geographic. She studies photographs of strange faraway people and places, the inside of a volcano, black and full of ashes, then a photograph of the volcano active, spilling over in rivulets of fire. She moves on to a photograph of two explorers in this volcanic landscape. Next comes a photograph of a dead man slung on a pole. She sees pictures of babies with pointed heads wound round and round with string, and pictures of black naked women with necks wound round and round with wire. The child Bishop finds the breasts of the naked women horrifying. Embarrassed by the nakedness of the black women, she covers her embarrassment by continuing to look at the magazine. Suddenly she hears a cry of pain from the dentist's surgery. It was Aunt Consuelo's voice. Now everything changes. Now comes the moment of epiphany, a moment of sudden awareness triggered by the images of the naked women with their horrifying breasts and by the cry of pain from her Aunt Consuelo. Bishop in an instant feels linked up with womanhood. She sees herself as a grown-up woman, like her foolish, timid aunt, as she calls her. She sees her future as a woman, which she finds overwhelming. She becomes aware of the female condition, aware of herself as a female, and aware of her destiny as a woman, perhaps as a foolish, timid woman, like her aunt. She is terrified of the destiny that awaits her. The babies, obviously female, with their heads wound round and round with string, and the naked black women with necks wound round and round with wire, were being groomed for their destiny as females in society. In these images and in her foolish, timid aunt, she suddenly saw her own destiny. She suddenly and frighteningly becomes aware that she is female, like those naked black women with the horrifying breasts, female like her foolish, timid aunt. In this terrifying moment for a seven-year-old, she becomes aware of herself as an individual, as a person, a person who will grow up to be a woman, grow up to be one of them. You are an Elizabeth, she tells herself. You are an I. She is aware of herself as a unique person, an individual who will grow up to share in the female condition. Nothing like this had ever happened in her life before. I knew that nothing stranger had ever happened, that nothing stranger could ever happen. She was almost seven, the traditional age of reason, and now, for the very first time, she knew what she was, and who she was, and what her destiny was, sharing in the female condition. All the great questions of life overwhelm her. Why should she be who she is, an I, an Elizabeth? Why should she be female? Why should she be a human being at all? Why is she part of the human race, and at the same time a separate person, and most overwhelmingly of all, how had I come to be here? In other words, what is existence all about? All those lies are too much for the seven-year-old. She has a panic attack. The waiting room was sliding beneath a big black wave, another and another. The moment of panic passes, and she is back in ordinary, familiar reality. Then there was back in it. The war was on, outside in Worcester, Massachusetts, where night and slush and cold. And it was still the 5th of February, 1918, but she would never be the same again. And now we listen to Linda O'Malley reading In the Waiting Room by Elizabeth Bishop. My heart is blue, my heart is so young, and only a woman's heart can beat. Only a woman, only a woman, and only a woman's heart can know. The tears that drip from my bewildered eyes taste of bittersweet romance. You're still in my heart, you're still on my mind, oh, and even though I'm an angel, you're still in my arms. My heart is low, my heart is so low, and only a woman's heart can beat. Only a woman, only a woman, and only a woman's heart can know. And yet as I reveal my troubled soul, as memories flood my weary heart, I mourn for my dreams, I mourn for my wasted love. That's why I know that I'll survive alone. My heart is low, my heart is so low, and only a woman's heart can beat. Only a woman, only a woman, and only a woman's heart can know. My heart is low, yes, my heart is so low, and only a woman's heart can beat. Only a woman, only a woman, and only a woman's heart can know. My heart is low, my heart is so low, and only a woman's heart can beat. Only a woman, only a woman, and only a woman's heart can know. My heart is low. And that was Mary Black with Only a Woman's Heart. We have a poem written by Alberto Rios, born in Montevideo, Uruguay, in 1948. And this is Alberto Rios reading his own poem, The House of Tomorrow. The House Called Tomorrow You are not fifteen, or twelve, or seventeen. You are a hundred wild centuries and fifteen, bringing with you, in every breath and in every step, everyone who has come before you, all the you's that you have been, the mothers of your mother, the fathers of your father. If someone in your family tree was trouble, a hundred were not. The bad do not win, not finally, no matter how loud they are. We simply would not be here if that were so. You are made fundamentally from the good. With this knowledge, you never march alone. You are the breaking news of the century. You are the good who has come forward through it all, even if so many days feel otherwise. But think, when you as a child learned to speak, it's not that you didn't know words. It's that from the centuries you knew so many, and it's hard to choose the words that will be your own. From those centuries, we human beings bring with us the simple solutions and songs, the river bridges and star charts and song harmonies, all in service to a simple idea, that we can make a house called tomorrow. What we bring finally into the new day every day is ourselves, and that's all we need to start. That's everything we require to keep going. Look back only for as long as you must, and go forward into the history you will make. Be good, then better. Write books. Cure disease. Make us proud. Make yourself proud. And those who came before you, when you hear thunder, hear it as their applause. Thank you. I have no doubt you dream about the things you never do, but I wish someone had talked to me like I want to talk to you. I've been to Georgia and California, anywhere I could run. Took the hand of a preacher man and we made love in the sun, but I ran out of places and friendly faces because I had to be free. I've been to paradise, but I've never been to me. Sleep lady, sleep lady, don't just walk away, because I have this need to tell you why I'm all alone today. I can see so much of me still living in your eyes. Won't you share a part of a weary heart that has lived a million lives? Oh, I've been to me and the Isle of Greece, where I sipped champagne on a yesterday. I moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo and showed them what I've got. I've been undressed by cream, and I've seen something that a woman ain't supposed to see. I've been to paradise, but I've never been to me. Hey, you know what paradise means? It's a lie, a fantasy we create about people and the places that we'd like them to be. But you know what truth is? It's that little baby you're holding, and it's that man you fought with this morning, the same one you're going to make love with tonight. That's the truth, that's the lie. Sometimes I've been to crying for unborn children that might have made me complete. But I've been to paradise and never knew I'd be bitter from the sweet. I've spent my life exploring the subtle whoring that comes too much to be free. Hey, baby, I've been to paradise, but I've never been to me. And that was Charlene with I've Never Been to Me. We have a poem by William Butler Yeats called Penny, Brown Penny. The symbol in this poem is the double-sided brown penny. The young man throws the penny up in the air, trying to decide if he might be lucky and win the lady's heart. The poem is read by Christopher Plummer. Brown Penny by William Butler Yeats. I whispered, I'm too young. And then, I'm old enough. Wherefore I threw a penny to find out if I might love. Go and love, go and love, young man, if the lady be young and fair. Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny. I am looped in the loops of her hair. Oh, love is the crooked thing. There is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it. For he would be thinking of love till the stars had run away and the shadows eaten the moon. Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny. One cannot begin it too soon. Three coins in a fountain. Each one seeking happiness. Thrown by three hopeful lovers. Which one will the fountain bless? Three coins in the fountain. Each one seeking happiness. Thrown by three hopeful lovers. Which one will the fountain bless? Three hearts in a fountain. Each one longing for its own. There they lie in the fountain. Somewhere in the heart of Rome. Three hearts in the fountain. Each heart longing for its own. There they lie in the fountain. Somewhere in the heart of Rome. Which one will the fountain bless? Which one will the fountain bless? Which one will the fountain bless? Which one will the fountain bless? Three coins in a fountain. Through the ripples how they shine. Just one wish will be granted. One heart will wear a valentine. Three coins in the fountain. Through the ripples how they shine. Just one wish will be granted. One heart will wear a valentine. Which one will the fountain bless? Which one will the fountain bless? Three coins in the fountain. Through the ripples how they shine. And just one wish will be granted. One heart will wear a valentine. Three coins in a fountain. Through the ripples how they shine. Just one wish will be granted. One heart will wear a valentine. Make it mine. Make it mine. Make it mine. Make it mine. Make it mine. Make it mine. And that was Doris Day and Frank Sinatra with Three Coins in a Fountain. Now we have a poem from the Connemara Community Radio CD, Come by the Hills. And this time it's a poem by Porrick Pearce. It's called The Wayfarer. And Michael O'Neill is reading the poem accompanied by John Gerard Walsh on accordion. The Wayfarer by Porrick Pearce. Porrick Pearce was one of the 1916 leaders. He was a prolific writer in both Irish and English. People remember from their school days O'Fannan Fierce and Beann Tlaibh a'Creen o'Amic as well as the mother which he wrote just before his execution in Kilmainham Gaol. The Wayfarer. The Wayfarer. The beauty of the world has made me sad. This beauty that will pass. Sometimes my heart is shaken with great joy to see a leaping squirrel on a tree or a red ladybird upon a stalk or little rabbits in a field at evening lit by a flanting sun or some green hill where shadows drifted by some quiet hill where a mountainy man has sown and soon will reap near to the gate of heaven or little children with bare feet upon the sands of some edged sea or playing in the streets of little towns in Connaught things young and happy and then my heart has told me these will pass will pass and change will die and be no more things bright and green things young and happy and I have gone upon my way sorrowful. The Wayfarer. I've met some folks who say that I'm a dreamer and I've no doubt this truth in what they say for sure a body found to be a dreamer when all the things he loves are far away and special things a dream to an exile they take him o'er the land across the sea especially when it happens he's in exile from that dear lovely isle in H3 and when the moon lies deep across the rooftops of this great city wandering so it seems I scarce can feel the magic or the beauty I'm once again back home in H3 I wander o'er green hills and dreamy valleys and find a peace no other land could know I hear the birds make music fit for angels and watch the rivers lapping as they flow and then unto a humble shack I wander my own dear home and tenderly behold the folks I love around the charcoal fire gather on bended knees the rosary is tolled but dreams don't last oh dreams are not forgotten and soon I'm back it's their reality and though they paint the footpaths here with gold oh I still would choose the isle of teenage dreams I still would choose the isle of teenage dreams The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God is a poem that was written by John Milton Hayes an English poet and actor who lived from 1884 until 1940 fought in the First World War and was a German prisoner of war He wrote this poem allegedly in 1911 and it took him five hours to write it It is a romantic poem set in Kathmandu which was the capital of Nepal The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Kathmandu There's a little marble cross below the town There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Kuru and the Yellow God forever gazes down He was known as Mad Kuru by the subs of Kathmandu but was better than they felt inclined to tell but for all his foolish pranks he was worshipped in the ranks and the colonel's daughter smiled on him as well He had loved her all along with the passion of the strong the fact that she loved him was plain to all She was nearly twenty-one and ravens had begun to celebrate her birthday with a ball He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Kuru They met next day as he dismissed his squat and jestingly she told him that nothing else would do but the Green Eye of the Little Yellow God On the night before the dance, Mad Kuru seemed in a trance and they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars but for once he failed to smile and he sat alone a while They went out into the night beneath the stars He returned before the dawn with his shirt and tulip torn and a gash across his temples dripping red He was patched up right away and he slept all through the day and the colonel's daughter watched beside his bed He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through She brought it and he thanked her with a nod He bade her search the pocket, saying, That's for Mad Kuru and she found the Little Green Eye of the God She upbraided poor Kuru in the way that women do though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet But she wouldn't take the stone and Kuru was left alone with the jewel that he had chanced his life to get When the ball was at its height on that still entropic night she thought of him and hastened to his room As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air of a waltz tune softly stealing through the gloom His door was open wide with the silver moonlight shining through The place was wet and slippery where she trod And an ugly life lay buried in the heart of Mad Kuru t'was the vengeance of the Little Yellow God There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Kathmandu There's a little marble cross below the town There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Kuru And the Yellow God forever gazes down Oh Danny boy, up high the pipes are calling From bend to bend, up down the mountain side The summer's gone and all the flowers are dying Tears you, tears you must go and I must hide But come you back when summer's in the meadow And when the valley's under white with snow Tears I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so But if you come and all the flowers were dying And I am dead, as dead I well may be You come and find the thought where I am lying And kneel and pray and obey there for me And I shall hear those lovely threads above me And o'er thy grave will warmer, sweeter be For you will kneel and tell me that you love me And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me And that was Danny Boy with Mary Corbett-Joyce vocals and Adon McGlynn on keyboard We have a poem by Paula Meehan, it's called Death of a Field The poem is introduced by Mary Faherty and Linda O'Malley will read the poem A background of Paula Meehan's poem Death of a Field This poem is set during the economic boom years known as the Celtic Tiger era when the construction industry grew at a rapid pace In this poem the Fingal County Council has put up a notice announcing its plans to build 44 houses in a local field where Meehan played as a child and experienced the rites of passage of a teenager First folks, first tokes, first groups The natural world of the field with its ecosystem of flowers, herbs, grass and general plant life is about to be replaced by concrete, 44 houses The poem then is Meehan's response to what she calls the death of a field It is an elegy, a lament The field itself is lost the morning it becomes a site When the notice goes up, Fingal County Council, 44 houses The memory of the field is lost with the loss of its herbs The simple words lost, used twice, and loss open the poem in an elegiac mood Next the poet focuses on what will happen to the bird life Their food source, worms etc. will be gone and the sensitive Meehan imagines the birds singing their hungry summer song Her feeling for the plight of the birds is conveyed in the sad rhythm of Sing on their hungry summer song Notice her knowledge of nature Wood pigeons, finches, wagtail and magpie Notice too her detailed knowledge of the trees the different birds frequent Willow, hawthorn hedge, elder Meehan is at her most sensitive when focusing on the disappearance of flora Here, in her empathy for nature, she personifies the yarrow and the scarlet pimpernel She shares in the yearning of yarrow in its longing for the home it will have lost And she feels for the plight of the scarlet pimpernel when its home has been concreted over Who can know the yearning of the yarrow or the plight of the scarlet pimpernel? These lines are just beautiful They convey the poet's spiritual bond with nature This field was once a playground for children And at the end of the field is the end of the hidey holes Where the first smokes, first tokes, first gropes were had to the scentless mayweed It was a place where young people could experience the rites of passage safe from the eyes of adults The field will be gone and be replaced by a housing estate With the mix of sorrow and joy that is part of living The word chemical, which Meehan uses with reference to the estate Suggests a world very different from the natural world of the field Chemical suggests artificial and man-made Towards the end of the poem, in eight lines, each beginning with the end of Which is anaphora Meehan juxtaposes all the plant life that is about to be lost with the man-made chemical cleaning agents Some of which will be damaging to the environment that will come with the estate In these eight lines we see again the poet's knowledge of nature See how she names the various plants Dandelion, Dock, Teasel, Primrose, Thistle, Slow, Herb Robert, Eyebrite And as I have said, she sets all the natural plants against their chemical artificial replacements Flash, Pledge, Aerial, Brillo, Bounce, Oxyaction, Brassow, Pursel These eight lines, each beginning with the end of, have a mournful rhythm, like a litany of loss In the next two lines, the heavy plaintive rhythm of rhetorical question Conveys the huge extent of the loss of flora and plant life that will follow the death of the field Who amongst us is able to number the end of grasses, to number the losses of each seeding head It's hard to recall anything more beautiful, more sensitive, more spiritual in all nature poetry than the ending of this poem Here the poem turns very personal The ending is magnificent in its beauty, in its feeling for nature, in its spiritual reaction to nature Before the field and all its ecosystem becomes just a map memory in some architect's computer screen The poet will walk out onto the moon barefoot and alone To absorb the field and all its life through the soles of her feet As she walks through the grass glistening with night dew She will hear the myriad leaves live green and singing The million million cycles of being in wing She will hear the rustling of all the tree leaves, plant leaves and blades of grass The sensitive imaginative poet will hear the song of nature in the rustling of the myriad leaves, all alive She will possess the field and the memory of the field, make it part of her soul, of her very being Or the field might possess her, or she might spiritually become one with nature She will preserve the field and the memory of the field, and this poem is proof that she has done so Death of a Field by Pauline Meaton The field itself is lost the morning it becomes a sight, when the notice goes up Fingal, county council, forty-four houses The memory of the field is lost with the loss of its herbs Though the wood pigeons in the willow and the finches in what's left of the Hawthorne hedge And the wagtail in the elder sing on their hungry summer song The magpies sound like flying castanets And the memory of the field disappears with its flora Who can know the yearning of yarrow, or the plight of the scarlet pimpernel, whose true colour is orange And the end of the field is the end of the hidey-holes, where first smokes, first tokes, first gropes were had to the scentless mayweed The end of the field as we know it is the start of the estate The site to be planted with houses, each two or three bedroom Nest of sorrow and chemical, cargo of joy The end of dandelion is the start of flash The end of dock is the start of pledge The end of teasel is the start of aerial The end of primrose is the start of brillo The end of thistle is the start of bounce The end of flow is the start of oxyaction The end of Herb Robert is the start of Brasso The end of eye-bright is the start of fairy Who amongst us is able to number the end of grasses, to number the losses of each seeding-head I'll walk out once barefoot under the moon to know the field Through the soles of my feet to hear the myriad leaf-lives, green and singing The million-million cycles of being in wing That, before the field becomes solely map-memory In some archive of some architect's screen I might possess it, or it possesses me Through its night-dew, its moon-white coal Its slick and shine, and its prolificacy In every wing-beat, in every beat of time I have walked along Broadway I've been down this trial I have seen many highways In every land But to all the fine places That I've ever been It's the road by the river That flows through Raffine I had only one brother A brave lad and bold He was killed in the rising May the Lord rest his soul On the spot where he's standing A white cross can be seen On the road by the river That flows through Raffine Rows and rows of new houses Are built on the green And there's been an old town Where my cottage has been And the river is clear But no train has reached me On the road by the river That flows through Raffine Roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, roo, ro Wander back to the well in that spot in your dream Like the road by the river that flows through our dreams Like the road by the river that flows through our dreams Thank you for listening. Please tune in again next week, same time, to the West Wind Blows. Bye for now. We're coming to the end of this week's play. Thank you to everyone who was part of it. Thank you to Bridge from Teckfield. Thank you to Live in the House for listening. You can listen to this week's play with other music. And until we meet again, thanks to Bridge and everyone. Bye for now. This program is kindly sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. Say goodbye to your old furniture and mattress in an affordable, convenient and sustainable way. Call 091-760-877.