Next Sunday, Paul Kivlehan will be ordained a priest of Achonry Diocese. It will be the first such ordination in the diocese in ten years and is a source of joy and blessing for us all. We wish Paul every happiness and blessing at this time and for his future ministry.
In days when ordinations were more plentiful, there was great rejoicing in parishes when one of their own became a priest. At one stage, ordinations took place in the seminary and the newly ordained came home the next day to celebrate his First Mass. There’s a lovely poem by John D Sheridan that captures such a homecoming and, in honour of Paul and his classmates to be ordained this summer, I thought it might be good to include it here. As I say, it’s from another age but hopefully some of the sentiment remains:
THE PRIESTIN’ OF FATHER JOHN
They’ll be priestin’ him the morra –Troth it’s a quare world too!For I min’ the rascal that he was,And the things he used to do.Many’s a time I chased himWhen the strawberries were ripeThough I own I never caught him –He was faster nor a snipe.He hit me wi’ a snowball once,And that same very handWill be blessin’ me the morra –Troth it’s hard to understand.Long Richard from Kircrubbin,Who a sort of far-out frien’,Is struttin’ round this fortnight back,Just like a hatchin’ hen.McAllister from Cargey,Who’s no more to him nor me,You’d think to hear the chat of himHe reared him on his knee.Tom the Tailor’s nearly betFrom hurryin’ on new suits,And there’s powerful heavy buyin’On caps and yella boots.The square is thick with buntin’ –Man dear there’ll be a sightWhen the late bus from DownpatrrickGets in the morra night.Oul’ Canon Dan, God bless him,Will be fussin’ fit to burst,And the women batin’ otherTo get the blessin’ first.But, Canon or no CanonAnd I’d say this till his face,For all his bit o’ purpleHe’ll take the second place.Sure even if the Bishop cameWi’ yon big mitre onHe wouldn’t get the welcomeThat we’ll give to Father John. The pains are at me constant nowI seldom cross the door –But I’m crossin’ it the morraIf I never cross it more.You can quit your scoldin’ , JuliaAn’ sayin’ I’m not wise –Sure the sight of him will ease me heartAn’ gladden me oul’ eyesIt won’t be easy bendin’,An’ the oul’ knees will hurtBut I’ll get down there fornenst himIn all the mud and dirt. And if I get the chance at allI’ll whisper in his ear(Och I’ll do it nice and quietso that no one else will hear) :“If anything should happen mebefore you go away,it’s no one but yourself I wantto shrive me on the clay.Th’ oul’ Canon mightn’t like itFor he’s still hale and strong,And I’m sure if he anointed meHe wouldn’t do it wrong.But I’d feel more contentedIf the hand to bless me when I goWas the hand that threw the snowballTwenty years ago.”
I think you know I like Johnny Cash. I came across this version of one of his songs last night. It features three fine singers and sounds pretty good – I think! Enjoy.
and the lyrics ….
“Flesh And Blood”
Beside a Singin’ Mountain Stream
Where the Willow grew
Where the Silver Leaf of Maple
Sparkled in the Mornin’ Dew
I braided Twigs of Willows
Made a String of Buckeye Beads;
But Flesh And Blood need Flesh And Blood
And you’re the one I need
Flesh And Blood need Flesh And Blood
And you’re the one I need.
I leaned against a Bark of Birch
And I breathed the Honey Dew
I saw a North-bound Flock of Geese
Against a Sky of Baby Blue
Beside the Lily Pads
I carved a Whistle from a Reed;
Mother Nature’s quite a Lady
But you’re the one I need
Flesh And Blood need Flesh And Blood
And you’re the one I need.
A Cardinal sang just for me
And I thanked him for the Song
Then the Sun went slowly down the West
And I had to move along
These were some of the things
On which my Mind and Spirit feed;
But Flesh And Blood need Flesh And Blood
And you’re the one I need
Flesh And Blood need Flesh And Blood
And you’re the one I need.
[SPOKEN]
So when this Day was ended
I was still not satisfied
For I knew ev’rything I touched
Would wither and would die
And Love is all that will remain
And grow from all these Seed;
[SUNG]
Mother Nature’s quite a Lady
But you’re the one I need
Flesh And Blood need Flesh And Blood
And you’re the one I need.
I have a Funeral Mass in the parish this morning. Last night the son of the man we will bury later today, told me his father loved cutting turf – the old-fashioned way – and used to talk about the season he cut “thirty-six trailer loads”. I looked today to see if I could find a poem or a verse about turf-cutting and came across this piece, “Digging”, by Seamus Heaney. I’m not sure I could do it justice but thought I’d share the clip here. It’s well done and might bring back a few memories for some. Enjoy!
Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.
Earlier today I received and email from a man who checks this blog regularly and who has made very kind comments on the site and privately. He was bringing to my attention a poem called “The Touch of The Master’s Hand” and I can see why. It’s an excellent poem. I was a bit surprised though since it’s about the only “recitation” I do and I’ve used it many times in church and other places. I learned it as a small boy from my uncle Joe Shannon, R.I.P. who also used to recite it. I was surprised it’s not on the blog and did a search to discover it’s not. I remember including it before on an older website I tried to do some work on many years ago and must have thought it was here as well. Anyway, now is as good a time as any to include it! I searched and found the file I had on the computer (the original page on the older website) so will include it here with an older photograph of Joe, God rest him.
My uncle Joe – died May 1982, R.I.P. he taught me these lines and much more ….
‘Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer Thought it was scarcely worth while To waste much time on the old violin, But held it up with a smile. “What am I bid, good folks,” he cried, “Who’ll start the bidding for me?” “A pound, a pound,” who’ll make it two? “Two pounds, and who’ll make it three? “Three pounds, once; three pounds twice; Going for three …”But no, From the room, far back, a grey-haired man Came forward and picked up the bow; Then wiping the dust from the old violin, And tightening up all of its strings, He played a melody, pure and sweet As sweet as angel sings.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer, With a voice that was quiet and low, Said: “What am I bid for this old violin?” As he held it up with the bow. “A thousand pounds, and who’ll make it two? Two thousand! And who’ll make it three? Three thousand, once; three thousand twice; And going and gone,” said he. The people cheered, but some of them cried, “We do not quite understand. “What changed the worth?” the man replied; “’twas the touch of a master’s hand.”
And many a man with a life out of tune, And battered and scarred with sin, Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd Much like the old violin. A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine A game — and he travels on. He is “going” once, and “going” twice, He’s “going” and almost “gone.” But the Master comes and the foolish crowd Never can quite understand The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought By the touch of the Master’s hand
I got Leonard Cohen’s new album “Old Ideas” during the week. The songs, as usual, are thought provoking but one, in particular caught my attention. It’s called “Come Healing” and is, in my opinion, a lovely piece. I’d see it at home in any setting where Reconciliation might be celebrated.
“Come Healing”
O gather up the brokenness And bring it to me now The fragrance of those promises You never dared to vow
The splinters that you carry The cross you left behind Come healing of the body Come healing of the mind
And let the heavens hear it The penitential hymn Come healing of the spirit Come healing of the limb
Behold the gates of mercy In arbitrary space And none of us deserving The cruelty or the grace
O solitude of longing Where love has been confined Come healing of the body Come healing of the mind
O see the darkness yielding That tore the light apart Come healing of the reason Come healing of the heart
O troubled dust concealing An undivided love The Heart beneath is teaching To the broken Heart above
O let the heavens falter And let the earth proclaim: Come healing of the Altar Come healing of the Name
O longing of the branches To lift the little bud O longing of the arteries To purify the blood
And let the heavens hear it The penitential hymn Come healing of the spirit Come healing of the limb
O let the heavens hear it The penitential hymn Come healing of the spirit Come healing of the limb
I get interested in things from time to time – some stay with me, others don’t. Some I let go of for a while and then come back to them. Some I never re-visit. Leonard Cohen is one of those interests that stays with me but comes and goes a bit as well. Anyway, following on from the song posted above, I looked a bit at Leonard today and came across the following speech he gave at a presentation ceremony in Spain last year. He speaks of “finding his voice” – “finding his song”. I think it’s worth a few minutes of your time. If you haven’t the time now – come back to it ……
It is a great honour to stand here before you tonight. Perhaps, like the great maestro, Riccardo Muti, I’m not used to standing in front of an audience without an orchestra behind me, but I will do my best as a solo artist tonight.
I stayed up all night last night wondering what I might say to this assembly. After I had eaten all the chocolate bars and peanuts from the minibar, I scribbled a few words. I don’t think I have to refer to them. Obviously, I’m deeply touched to be recognized by the Foundation. But I have come here tonight to express another dimension of gratitude; I think I can do it in three or four minutes.
When I was packing in Los Angeles, I had a sense of unease because I’ve always felt some ambiguity about an award for poetry. Poetry comes from a place that no one commands, that no one conquers. So I feel somewhat like a charlatan to accept an award for an activity which I do not command. In other words, if I knew where the good songs came from I would go there more often.
I was compelled in the midst of that ordeal of packing to go and open my guitar. I have a Conde guitar, which was made in Spain in the great workshop at number 7 Gravina Street. I pick up an instrument I acquired over 40 years ago. I took it out of the case, I lifted it, and it seemed to be filled with helium it was so light. And I brought it to my face and I put my face close to the beautifully designed rosette, and I inhaled the fragrance of the living wood. We know that wood never dies. I inhaled the fragrance of the cedar as fresh as the first day that I acquired the guitar. And a voice seemed to say to me, “You are an old man and you have not said thank you, you have not brought your gratitude back to the soil from which this fragrance arose. And so I come here tonight to thank the soil and the soul of this land that has given me so much.
Because I know that just as an identity card is not a man, a credit rating is not a country.
Now, you know of my deep association and confraternity with the poet Frederico Garcia Lorca. I could say that when I was a young man, an adolescent, and I hungered for a voice, I studied the English poets and I knew their work well, and I copied their styles, but I could not find a voice. It was only when I read, even in translation, the works of Lorca that I understood that there was a voice. It is not that I copied his voice; I would not dare. But he gave me permission to find a voice, to locate a voice, that is to locate a self, a self that that is not fixed, a self that struggles for its own existence.
As I grew older, I understood that instructions came with this voice. What were these instructions? The instructions were never to lament casually. And if one is to express the great inevitable defeat that awaits us all, it must be done within the strict confines of dignity and beauty.
And so I had a voice, but I did not have an instrument. I did not have a song.
And now I’m going to tell you very briefly a story of how I got my song.
Because – I was an indifferent guitar player. I banged the chords. I only knew a few of them. I sat around with my college friends, drinking and singing the folk songs and the popular songs of the day, but I never in a thousand years thought of myself as a musician or as a singer.
One day in the early sixties, I was visiting my mother’s house in Montreal. Her house was beside a park and in the park was a tennis court where many people come to watch the beautiful young tennis players enjoy their sport. I wandered back to this park which I’d known since my childhood, and there was a young man playing a guitar. He was playing a flamenco guitar, and he was surrounded by two or three girls and boys who were listening to him. I loved the way he played. There was something about the way he played that captured me. It was the way that I wanted to play and knew that I would never be able to play.
And, I sat there with the other listeners for a few moments and when there was a silence, an appropriate silence, I asked him if he would give me guitar lessons. He was a young man from Spain, and we could only communicate in my broken French and his broken French. He didn’t speak English. And he agreed to give me guitar lessons. I pointed to my mother’s house which you could see from the tennis court, and we made an appointment and settled a price.
He came to my mother’s house the next day and he said, “Let me hear you play something.” I tried to play something, and he said, “You don’t know how to play, do you?’
I said, “No, I don’t know how to play.” He said “First of all, let me tune your guitar. It’s all out of tune.” So he took the guitar, and he tuned it. He said, “It’s not a bad guitar.” It wasn’t the Conde, but it wasn’t a bad guitar. So, he handed it back to me. He said, “Now play.”
I couldn’t play any better.
He said “Let me show you some chords.” And he took the guitar, and he produced a sound from that guitar I had never heard. And he played a sequence of chords with a tremolo, and he said, “Now you do it.” I said, “It’s out of the question. I can’t possibly do it.” He said, “Let me put your fingers on the frets,” and he put my fingers on the frets. And he said, “Now, now play.”
It was a mess. He said, ” I’ll come back tomorrow.”
He came back tomorrow, he put my hands on the guitar, he placed it on my lap in the way that was appropriate, and I began again with those six chords – a six chord progression. Many, many flamenco songs are based on them.
I was a little better that day. The third day – improved, somewhat improved. But I knew the chords now. And, I knew that although I couldn’t coordinate my fingers with my thumb to produce the correct tremolo pattern, I knew the chords; I knew them very, very well.
The next day, he didn’t come. He didn’t come. I had the number of his, of his boarding house in Montreal. I phoned to find out why he had missed the appointment, and they told me that he had taken his life. That he committed suicide.
I knew nothing about the man. I did not know what part of Spain he came from. I did not know why he came to Montreal. I did not know why he played there. I did not know why he he appeared there at that tennis court. I did not know why he took his life.
I was deeply saddened, of course. But now I disclose something that I’ve never spoken in public. It was those six chords, it was that guitar pattern that has been the basis of all my songs and all my music. So, now you will begin to understand the dimensions of the gratitude I have for this country.
Everything that you have found favourable in my work comes from this place. Everything , everything that you have found favourable in my songs and my poetry are inspired by this soil.
So, I thank you so much for the warm hospitality that you have shown my work because it is really yours, and you have allowed me to affix my signature to the bottom of the page
(I heard this poem this morning – December 21st – read by Maeve McGivern on RTE Radio. Maeve is a young girl from Leitrim who, earlier this year, underwent a liver transplant operation in a London hospital. She was expressing her thanks to the donor and donor’s family, to all who prayed for her and wished her well. I liked what I heard and thought I’d share. I don’t know who wrote the poem and suspect it may be anonymous. The message is solid …. In posting it, I wish Maeve well on her road to recovery and we remember all who are sick a this time.)
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