The Street E-Book

John B. Keane

• Herausgeber: Mercier Press
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2003

Seitenzahl: 56

Beschreibung

(Selected & Edited by Joanna Keane-O'Flynn) John B. Keane was a spirited, charismatic and generous man who will forever occupy a special niche in the hearts and minds of Irish people everywhere. This is a fascinating collection of many well-known John B Keane poems and, for the first time, his songs, selected and edited by his daughter Joanna. It includes; The Street, My Father, The Sive Song, Sweet Listowel, Many Young Men of Twenty, Kitty Curley and If I Were the Rose of Tralee - a must for all Keane fans.

Leseprobe

John B. Keane’s Kerry Blessing

That the frost may never afflict your spuds,

That your cabbages may always be free from worms,

That the crows might never pick your stack,

That your she-goat might never dread the puck,

And should you by good fortune, come into

the possession of a female donkey,

May she be in foal.

Calefacted by the monks of Ballybunion who

eventually succumbed to their own produce.

Dedication

To the Keane and O’Flynn grandchildren

so adored by John B.

MERCIER PRESS

3B Oak House, Bessboro Rd

Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

www.mercierpress.ie

http://twitter.com/IrishPublisher

http://www.facebook.com/mercier.press

© The Estate of John B. Keane, 2003

ISBN: 978 1 85635 415 8

Epub ISBN: 978 1 7811 551 4

Mobi ISBN: 978 1 7811 552 1

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

Foreword

‘No mun, no, fun, your son’, my father, still in his teens, wrote in desperation to his own father, William Keane, while on a camping adventure with his friends in Ballybunion.

‘How sad, too bad, your dad’, my grandfather quipped back.

Up to his death last year, John B. spoke in verse and song in his everyday exchanges with family and friends. ‘O Jimmy Boylan, you are always smiling’, he would sing to a Cork companion of the same name. His language was naturally alliterative, assonantal, magical and musical.

‘He was a poet before anything else’, my mother remarked of late concerning John B. Indeed included in this revised anthology are ‘Wagtail’ and ‘The Street’ composed when my father was only seventeen. The then president of St Michael’s College reprimanded him for these first forays into poetry disbelieving that they could be his own work. Ironically, this cynicism served only to drive him to experiment further with his craft.

Throughout their happy lives, my parents were engaged in a love affair punctuated by passion, deep love and unflinching devotion to each other. ‘Two Eyes’ was published in The Kerryman newspaper in March 1950 in dedication to my mother. ‘Two Lips’, a sister poem, from my mother’s private collection of poems is also included in this anthology. During their courtship, in the early 1950s, he wrote letters and poems unrelentingly to her in an impeccable hand – from Listowel and later England to her native Ahaneboy, Knocknagoshel – always affectionately addressing her as Mague. ‘Two Lips’, ‘Tryst’, ‘Yesterday’ and ‘Delight’ are all published for the first time in this collection.

My father was deeply proud of his native Listowel. In the latter stages of his life, he could not bear to be away from his beloved town for more than three days. Privately, and in public interviews, he unceasingly paid tribute to the town that bore and shaped him. He eagerly engaged with the vitality and vibrancy of his colourful town. He speaks lyrically and touchingly about the River Feale, most notably in ‘Feale Waters’. One of his last compositions, the song ‘Sweet Listowel’, was written as a promise to a neighbour, bookie Eric Browne. Whether inebriated or cold sober, John B. could burst into song at any given moment.

Last year, John B. spoke to some of my students on the art of writing. ‘I’d love him for a dad’, one girl remarked afterwards. He was optimistically approaching his seventy-fourth birthday when he gently slipped away from us on a bright May morning. John B. wrote about his own father, also seventy-three when he passed away:

I am terribly proud of my father,

Bitterly, faithfully proud.

Let none say a word to my father

Or mention his name out loud.

The same words ring true about his son.

JOANNA KEANE O’FLYNN

May 2003

Introduction

Poems of a Man who Loved Love

John B. Keane wrote poems at different times in his life. As a young man, he wrote quite a lot, but as he turned his attention more and more to plays, his poetic output understandably diminished. Yet he always kept in touch and this new collection has all the imaginative vitality and variety, the linguistic energy, the blend of humour and compassion, the sharp powers of observation, the love of nature, the understanding of people, the love of music, the lifelong appreciation of drink and drinking companions, and that tolerant open-mindedness towards different kinds of experience that characterises all his work. Readers of this book, these poems, ballads and songs, will be struck, once again, by the warm humanity of the man who wrote them, and by the scrupulous, traditional skills with which he expressed that humanity.

Songs. Music. Ballads. Football. Love. Sex. Emigration. Fulfilment. Disappointment. Time. Marriage. Dublin. London. Listowel. Always lovely Listowel. And the River Feale. John B.’s beloved Mary, her beauty and kindness. His love of freedom. His dislike of all forms of tyranny, including spiritual fascism. His father, ‘a lovely man’, ‘a loveable man’. His ability to appreciate the lives of both country people and people of the town. His ability to face the problems of loneliness and his robust savouring of the delights of pleasure. The beautiful, moving, cutting songs from his plays. The poet in the dramatist. The dramatist in the poet. And always, the passionate sense that here is a writer with a deep love of life in all its complexity. From beginning to end, John B. Keane was a lover. It was this love that drove him on. Love of language. Love of poetry and music. Love of Mary and his family. Love of justice. Love of people. Love of love.

He could be satirical too. There are poems here that show his caustic side. Caustic, but not bitter. The lover wins through in the end.

I’ll end by quoting a couple of verses from one of my favourite poems by that great and gallant soul. The poem is entitled ‘Leaving Home for the First Time’.

All over Feale river the shadows are falling.

And deep in Shanowen the vixen is calling.

The sweet night is young, love; the night is forever.

And shadows are falling all over Feale river.

Oh, my love, my first love, the salmon are leaping.

Lie still, my hard heart, my beloved is sleeping.

The sweet night is young, love; tonight is forever.

The shadows are falling all over Feale river.

BRENDAN KENNELLY

The Street

I love the flags that pave the walk.