Student Blog

Chronicles of Beara

The Poetry 2 module of the MA in Creative Writing concentrates on the relationship between poetry and mythology.  It involves a field trip to the Beara Peninsula to visit sites associated with local lore with poet Leanne O’Sullivan.  Here students of the class of 2016/17 share the experience.

An elemental connection

Of my two semesters in the UCC Creative Writing MA programme, Poetry I and Poetry II unexpectedly turned out to be the most satisfying and enjoyable, not to mention the most challenging.  I have always loved poetry and studied it for years in secondary school and college.  But until Leanne O’Sullivan and UCC, I had never been asked to write original poetry.  I can’t say I aspire to become a poet, but I believe I turned in some good work, especially during second semester and Poetry II.  The experience will help me become a better prose stylist and novelist, which is my aspiration.  The broad theme of Poetry II was the intimate relationship between poetry and mythology.  The trip to Beara brought home the intimate relationship between mythology and place, teaching us to ground our poems not in abstractions but in a vivid, concrete setting.  On Beara perhaps more than anywhere else in Ireland I felt a connection with something elemental, timeless, spiritual.  Standing before an chailleach I understood in the deepest sense and for the first time Patrick Pearse’s famous lines, ‘I am Ireland. I am older than the Old Woman of Beara.’ The entire poetry experience at UCC was life-changing.  The two days on Beara were the highlight.

           Thomas Moore

Imbued with magic

As an American who had never been anywhere in Europe before, our explorations of ancient sites and their stories was incredibly moving. I’d never seen so many places and monuments that were so imbued with magic. I feel as if I learned more about Ireland in that one weekend than I had all year. I’d visited places on my own, or with friends or family, but it was a unique experience to have Leanne as our guide, with her seemingly limitless knowledge of Beara and its legends. There is something very powerful about exploring a place with a person so directly connected to it, and Leanne did an amazing job showing us stone circles, ruined castles and churches, abandoned mines, legendary stones, and even a lovely waterside pub. This trip has given me images and stories that I know will be popping up in my writing for years to come!

                        Alyssandra Tobin

Space for fresh thinking

We stood beside our Lady of Beara and looked out across the water to see where she first perched and then leapt to land, now frozen in one attitude. There on her back and face are small talismans and entreaties for luck, for safety, for peace. In wishful thinking and hopeful gesture, people make invaluable offerings. A rose withered on a mouldy stem at the Cailleach’s feet. This weekend was set aside for us to ponder and perceive the natural world and to learn how to incorporate her into our work. The stay at Anam Cara was restful and revitalizing, and our hosts were the kindest folks. The weekend on Beara created the space for fresh thinking and poetic invention and influence. I can’t express precisely how it helped me, but I felt that this time in the wilderness of west Cork was paramount in providing us the encouragement necessary to clamber through the last dregs of the semester. I believe that the course is successful in part because the students get to take a tour of the country and stretch their legs and minds. My work would not be the same without the Beara weekend.

                        Kathryn Brock

The Power of Story

The trip to Beara was a hugely enjoyable experience on many levels. It’s a beautiful part of the country which was lovely to see. On a social level, it was also very pleasant to spend time with classmates at the end of a very busy academic year. Most importantly though, to end the module with a trip to Beara, where we visited a number of mythological and historical sites, was a wonderfully inspiring way to bring my readings into a physical space which ultimately filtered back to a more imaginative centre for me. Seeing the Hag of Beara, for example, was a moving experience which has led to some early drafting of a poem exploring her relationships with men, the joy and poignancy of living seven lives and the impact of her dealings with the well-intentioned, but, for her, ultimately fateful rise of Christianity. On this trip we also got to visit the grave site of the Children of Lir. For me it was wonderfully evocative to think of people marking this magical tale with a monument – a monument to tradition and imagination. This physical manifestation, a sort of land-marking of mythology, showed a beautiful respect for tradition and a sense of homage to the power of story in people’s lives.

                       Jacqui Corcoran

MA students at the Anam Cara retreat; back row, from left, Victor Tanner, Jacqui Corcoran, Mona Lynch, Thomas Moore, Paul Asta: Front row, from left: Alyssandra Tobin, Leanne O’Sullivan, Kathryn Brock.

Written in stone

Creative writing PhD student Fiona Whyte was lucky enough to be on a research trip to Lindisfarne, where her novel is set, when an archaeological discovery was made that has created a scholarly buzz.

Farne Island on a clear day

On the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, where my novel is set, the remains of an Anglo-Saxon stone church were recently discovered. Archaeologists also uncovered the foundations of a tower nearby. The find, undertaken by the Peregrini Lindisfarne Landscape Project, is of major historical importance and has precipitated a complete re-evaluation of everything that was known about the earliest monastery buildings on the island.

I had the very good fortune to be on the island for a few days while the excavations were being carried out and was able to view this sacred site as well as talk with some of the volunteers involved. The building, constructed of white sandstone, was situated on an exposed, wind-torn, rocky promontory just a few metres from the cliff’s edge. It stood facing the royal fortress of Bamburgh, the stronghold of the monks’ first patron King-Saint Oswald, across the water.

On a clear day, such as the gloriously sunny morning of my visit, the Farne island, used by both Saints Aidan and Cuthbert as a hermitage, would have been visible.

The find has generated huge excitement, not only because it must have been a key site of the monastic community which christianised the North-East and produced the renowned Lindisfarne Gospels, but also because up to now it had been believed that the Anglo-Saxon inhabitants of the island built only in wood.

Contemporaneous accounts by the Venerable Bede describe a wooden church in which the monks worshipped. Certainly, the monks revered their wooden churches, one of which they dismantled and took with them when they abandoned the island at the time of the Viking invasions. A fascinating detail of the excavation is that the primitive nature of the chisel marks on the stone suggests that the mason was unused to working with that material.

Perhaps. The island is alive with speculation. Everyone has an opinion, a plausible theory. Archaeologists, historians, tour guides, pilgrims, tourists, hotel staff and island residents all vie with each other to produce their own hypotheses.

The monks must have chosen this challenging location for their stone church for symbolic reasons. The church dates potentially to Saint Aidan’s time because its altar is located against the east wall. It may be that this church was built around Saint Aidan’s original wooden church to act as a protective structure. Possibly it was a replacement for the original church. It’s likely that this was one of several churches on the island. The tower was presumably the tower referenced by Bede which received the beacon signal from the Farne Island announcing St Cuthbert’s death.

It struck me listening to all these theories how strong the impulse is in human beings, including among fact and evidence-driven researchers, to find a story, the real story. There seems to be some deep-seated need in us to uncover the mysteries of the past and explore their meanings. But while archaeologists and historians must rationalise and balance probabilities, the fiction writer has the luxury to imagine and invent, harnessing the known details, teasing out their metaphorical significance and building the story around them.

For me, the most resonant part of this discovery is not the material the church is made of, but its location on the precipice. I can imagine Cuthbert on a sunny day standing by the church, looking out to sea, meditating on the lonely beauty of God’s creation. I can see him on a stormy day, struggling against the howling wind, trying to reach the door of the church. I see him looking over to Bamburgh, ruminating on the latest political events. I see him looking out to the Farne Island, longing for the absolute solitude there, and I also see him on the Farne, looking back to Holy Island, to the white light reflected by that sandstone church and longing for the company he’d left behind.

The site of the church has been filled in again to preserve it. Future digs and scientific tests may uncover more of the stories behind the church, the people who built it and the people who prayed in it. For now these stories remain elusive, their clues written in stone but yet to be deciphered.

 

 

So you want to do a creative writing MA?

Graduation Day February 2017 – Tadhg Coakley is fourth from left.

Recent CW graduate Tadhg Coakley has just signed a book deal with Mercier Press – but just two years ago he was asking himself this question. Here he shares his ten commandments and some words to the wise for those at the start of the journey.

You’re thinking of signing up for an MA in creative writing, you’ve always wanted to write, you think you have it in you. You wrote some stories/poems when you were younger but they were rejected by a couple of magazines, so you let them sit there. Or you were too insecure to show them to anyone. Or you’ve had some recent success, you’re really getting going and you want to build on it.

Or you read a book lately and it was wonderful, stunning – like Solar Bones, or Anything is Possible, or some new poems by Derek Mahon in The Irish Times. And you wonder: could I do something like that, could I write something worthwhile? My time is running out.

You know you’d love to, were meant to, have to, but could you? Really? And would such a course help?

Well, the answer is yes. Yes you could, and yes it would.

This time last year I was slaving away at my MA thesis (with incredible support from my supervisor Madeleine D’Arcy), editing five short stories. Now I am working on the same material (somewhat changed and much expanded) but with a book deal, having secured a contract with Mercier Press for it to be published next year.  And oh, the moment when you sign that contract …

But without the MA, without all that went into it and came out of it, there would be no book, I know that for sure. And certainly no contract. And if I can do it, then so can you – I’m sure of that, too.

If you do this course you won’t be taught how to write – that’s something you will learn for yourself. But you will be provided with a safe and nurturing environment in which to do so. You will be mentored by serious writers in the faculty who want you to do well. You will write – you will write a lot, and your writing will be read, and critiqued by other writers. You will be treated seriously as a writer – you will, in fact, become a writer and begin to feel like one.

You will join a community of writers. You will become good friends with writers – lifetime friends. You will learn from them and they from you. When I joined the course two years ago, I knew two or three writers. Now I know dozens and some of them are close friends. You will read the work of those writers and the work of masters. Techniques will be explained. Encouragement will be given. Mistakes will be pointed out. You will develop rigour, and perseverance, you will honour deadlines, you will pitilessly cut and edit your work. You will worry, you will suffer at times, it’s hard – but the sense of accomplishment when you write a decent sentence is immeasurable.

From my own experience and that of my classmates, here are some tips for you to get the most out of your year:

1.Listen and trust the teachers, but listen and trust your own instincts too.

2. Be yourself; don’t be obsessed about marks but push yourself to produce the best work you can.

3. Embrace the workshops, learn from reading the work of others – be kind, but truthful in your responses, be open and thick-skinned about those you receive.

4. Finish what you start.

5. Be present in the course, be mindful that no system is perfectly suited to your needs but take as much as you can possibly get.

6. Be patient, nobody can become a great writer in a year, it takes many years of honing and hardship.

7. Believe!

8. Be kind to yourself, you’re doing the best you can, take pleasure in the triumphs, learn from the work that’s less successful.

9. Enjoy it, have a laugh, do other stuff – Cork is sound, like. Drink coffee. Drink beer. Have a good moan with your classmates.

10. And when it’s over, in twelve short months, don’t stop, don’t ever stop, don’t even think about it. Now you have a body of work to build upon.

Writing is hard; it can floor you sometimes and editors will reject your work, but if you have a story to tell, then it’s your story, so tell it – nobody else ever will – and keep telling it.

Writing won’t make you rich but if it’s what you have to do, then do it, and do it well.

Writing is art, remember you are producing art. Art! Be proud of that, and go for it, and sign up now.

 

Trying to find your place

Creative writing often has an uneasy place teetering between English Literature and Education and occasionally going solo.  PhD students in creative writing, Laura McKenna and Fiona Whyte were at the Shared Futures Conference in Newcastle earlier this month, where more than a hundred panels discussed pooling creativity and research strategies. Laura McKenna describes how they got on.

“Reflections on Time and Place” was a panel on historical fiction and since Fiona and I are committed exponents of the genre, it was an obvious choice for us.  This was like having a pleasant discussion among a group of people with shared interests, which it was. We covered issues of inspiration, authenticity, the necessity (or otherwise) of spending time in “the place”, what research tools have proven useful, and the importance (or otherwise) of adhering to “known history”.

The result?

The panel and chair worked well together, and were a fine bunch of people (I would say that, wouldn’t I?) The two other panelists, Julie Primon and Paul Pattison, were PhD candidates, with historical fiction creative projects and the chair, Sean Baker, was also a doctoral candidate in creative writing. All the projects were interesting and covered different periods in time which allowed a diversity of responses. The “audience” was interested, participated and asked relevant questions of the panel.

Can you sense the big however hovering? Well, here it is.

Audiences were small – one of the problems with having up to fourteen panels running concurrently. Our  panel was set up for the purpose of discussion but there were fewer than 10 in attendance. Given the aims of the conference, I was not sure who would be present to ask questions. Professional writers? Language experts? Critics? English literature academics? Creative writing theorists?

It was difficult to know how to pitch a presentation. Would it hinge on Place as a concept? Or Sense of Place? How have other writers dealt with issues of place, of authenticity, of voice and dialect? Why is there even a debate on the place of historical novels within the literary fiction genre? (perhaps not relevant to this panel topic).

These were all subjects we did not get to and which might have provided a meatier conversation. That’s not to say I could have answered the questions, but I still think it would have been a valiant and worthwhile exercise.

As an aside, on the issue of visiting “the place”, it’s impossible for me to visit most of my settings; New Brunswick, Fort Erie, St Louis, New Orleans, Charlestown, Antigua etc etc —though I wouldn’t say no to a travel bursary!

Creative Writing Discourse

“Creative Writing Discourse” was a panel with  Jen Webb, University of Canberra; Katherine Coles, University of Utah; Paul Hetherington, University of Canberra and Paul Munden, NAWE. This session looked at the current state of play of creative writing programmes in the US, Australia and UK. What was interesting about this was the great disparity in emphasis on Critical/Academic vs Creative, both in terms of the proportion and the focus of the critical component.

Katherine Coles reported that (in general) the emphasis in the US is strictly on the creative output. It is considered that the critical requirement is addressed by course work (two years of PhD in literature course work followed by one year intensive reading then creative component). She herself is evaluated on basis of her creative output and is perceived to bring prestige to the university.

In Australia, CW must legitimize its existence as an academic programme, resulting in a strong emphasis on theory. While UK programmes place less emphasis on the critical exegesis than their Australian counterparts, there is little consensus on what the content should be (Theory? Process? Or nothing to do with the creative output at all in some cases?) or the length.

The issue of who should be admitted to a PhD programme was discussed and was thoughtful and thought-provoking. Some felt that many PhD candidates don’t have sufficient rigour in either academics or process, leading to speculation that applicants may sometimes be accepted because they bring in money to universities, and don’t require much in the way of facilities or input.

Other discussion points: Perhaps the US system of extensive coursework would make good this gap in academic grounding. Likewise the Australian system might benefit from the US workshopping approach instead of the hands-off independent work that is currently more common.

Literary salon meets Desert Island Discs

The great joy of the conference for me was an event that crossed a Literary Salon with Desert Island Discs: “John Mullan in conversation with Sarah Dillon”.  Dr Mullan, is Professor of Modern English Literature at UCL. In my limited sphere he is the author of How Novels Work and countless articles and interviews on contemporary literature for The Guardian. He was funny, witty, erudite and quite the mimic. He read from his selection of four favourite or personally meaningful texts. And the word “read” does no justice to his delivery. His knowledge of and delight in Jane Austen in particular, was infectious.

He had stories about academics, about writers whom he has interviewed and he spoke of them in a manner that suggested ‘I shouldn’t really say this but I’m among friends’. He had some wonderful lines including one on Young Adult fiction: It’s the ladder you kick away. Of course, he’s a consummate professional on either side of the interview table, skilled at balancing humour with erudition.

If you haven’t heard him speak before — and I hadn’t — here’s a snippet from another interview. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DxPI4kkhmdY

 

 

Beautiful things to hold

MA student Jacqui Corcoran, with a background in broadcasting, describes how she and fellow student, book-binder Paul Asta, set about marrying craft and enterprise to produce a thing of beauty with their Wildlings project.

Rilke’s advice to “ask yourself in the most silent hour of night: must I write?” is wise counsel, mirrored in a recent talk at UCC from visiting writer Lionel Shriver. Shriver, a high-profile, prolific writer who has had much commercial success, was forthright about the very real struggle it is to make a living out of any creative practice.

Perhaps one of the biggest questions we might ask ourselves as creative writing students, is not the more obvious do we have the talent, but the more practical question – are we ready or able to fully commit to a career and life that will demand so much and (if we’re even lucky enough to get published) will probably give little or no financial reward in return?

The Business of Writing module on UCC’s MA in Creative Writing attempts to offer students a springboard to explore ways to earn a crust in the arts. The module features a series of lectures featuring writers, agents and publishers coupled with a one-week work experience placement. For our work experience this semester, fellow student, poet and book-binder Paul Asta and I decided to set up our own enterprise.

I use the term “enterprise” loosely. The word is usually taken to imply some sort of task being tackled in the hopes of reaping financial reward. For our project, Wildings, we invited our fellow creative writing students to submit poetry, fiction and memoir samples. We collected these into a chapbook and made audio recordings of the writers’ work. The project was never about making money. With contributions from participants, we went some way towards covering our costs, but this project was about something else entirely.

So what was it about? At the informal launch of Wildlings last week, one of our fellow students put it perfectly when she described the CD and chapbook as “beautiful things to hold.” She was right. The final “product” was very nice. But, for me, it was also about the process.

There was something very satisfying in  watching the transition of writers’ words to the page and on to the CD. It was about marrying of different elements of our work and being able to present a memento to our classmates and tutors of our time together, a token of sorts. It was about finding a way to gather samples of our writings and say – this is what we did, here is the evidence of our various journeys.

It was about holding some moment, capturing, or at least attempting to capture, some essence of our learning experience. It was about the understated, home-crafted pieces that evolved out of Paul’s hours of typesetting, printing and hand-stitching the booklets. It was about designing covers using a simple print of mine that had some personal resonance around taking steps towards a writing life. It was about mastering the challenges of new software and failing old technology! It was about hearing confidence and change in people’s voices as their individual creative journeys evolved on and off the page, on air and when the microphone was switched off.

In a recent Guardian podcast, outgoing chair of Arts Council UK, Peter Bazalgette, was asked why public money should be put into the arts. He spoke of the obvious social and economic benefits, but also the intrinsic benefit of the arts as a way of telling human stories that help you put yourself in somebody else’s shoes.

Mentioning myself and Paul’s project in the context of far more worthy and worldly discussions on the arts might seem a lofty parallel, but being creative and actually creating doesn’t always have to be about the making of monumental work that will change the world.

Wildlings won’t be making any waves other than the ripples caused in a few raised glasses at The Abbey Tavern last Friday. But all the hard work has paid off in the shape of these beautiful things to hold. That is the reward.

Entering John Montague country

Poet and MA student Úna Ní Cheallaigh mourns the loss of the late poet John Montague’s voice and, in particular, the lyrical notes of his home place in Tyrone, a heritage that she shares with him.

 

I found myself reading Montague again today.

Yes, reading silently the poems of John Montague, poet and teacher. His final collection, Second Childhood was published earlier this year by Gallery Press. This was to be launched initially at the Cork International Poetry Festival in February, with the poet reading from his work.

But in the words of the Scots poet Robert Burns –

The best laid plans of mice and men –

Gang aft aglay and leave us nought

But grief and pain for promised joy.

John Montague departed this world unexpectedly on December 10, 2016, and instead of reading to us at the festival, the event became a tribute to Montague the man, the poet, by a younger generation of writers who were privileged to have known him, having him as mentor and teacher when they studied at UCC, spending many hours with him at his home on Grattan Hill. We were not left with grief and pain but a gift of poetry that will be ours for as long as it is read by those he inspired and tutored in the craft.

On that very special occasion, hosted by Theo Dorgan, words of tribute were spoken by his publisher Peter Fallon; poems read by former students Greg Delanty, Thomas Mc Carthy, Gerry Murphy, Liz O’Donohue  and Theo Dorgan. His daughter Sybil read “Bird Boy”, the final stanza singing to us –

the grown man, serving his guests

plates scented with saffron,

ragged leaves of coriander, cumin,

halts, as phantom birds begin to sing.

As I listened to the poems being read I became unsettled. I could not put my finger on it. The disquiet stayed with me. Days later it dawned on me. Yes that phantom bird on my shoulder, the voice I hear when I read his poems silently, John’s voice. I realised I had never heard anyone else read his poems aloud. He was raised in Co. Tyrone and his voice was that of my grandfather’s people who grew up on a farm near Fintona, not far from his maternal home, a place he brings us to in his poem ,”The Locket”  –

 Of your wild, young days

which didn’t last long, for you,

lovely Molly, the belle of your small town,

His poems are full of places I heard talked of, Ballygawley, Garvaghy and Glencull and songs learnt in school  – the”Eriskay Love Lilt” of his poem, “The Old Pathway”Even though he lived abroad for many years in America and in France, his accent remained Northern, always an Ulsterman. He embraced so many other cultures but still the voice remained the same. Hearing his poems being read by others in different voices was like a rite of passage for his work. I was familiar with most of the poets who read that night. I had heard them read their own work in public before, so this added to the strangeness of it all. Now as I read Second Childhood quietly to myself, I carry his voice with me, my second voice, the lilt and cadence of the line will always be Fintona, Garvaghy and Glencull –

That note of impossible longing

Montague gives me back the voice of my people, their farm in Fintona sold, a way of life lost. His voice in my ear as I write, stirring me to speak of Mc Phillemy, Shannon and McNally, my lyrical voice will always be Tyrone – Tír Eoghan – John’s Country.

This post originally appeared on writing.ie – https://www.writing.ie/guest-blogs/of-montague-and-me-guest-post-from-una-ni-cheallaigh/

 

 

 

Knocking on history’s door

Image courtesy of Durham World Heritage site

The novel Fiona Whyte  is writing as part of her PhD project is  based on the life of the 7th century visionary St Cuthbert.  She visited Durham Cathedral, the site of his burial, but found plenty of other stories there, both old and new.

The dragon-like Sanctuary Knocker on the north door of Durham cathedral marks the threshold of a sacred space. During the Middle Ages, people who had committed an offence could seek sanctuary by rapping on the knocker and would be given 37 days to reconcile with their enemies. After that they would be required to stand trial or leave the country. For me, the knocker is a reminder that this magnificent building is constructed as much from story as from stone. It raps on the door of the past and calls up the stories which are grounded, literally in some cases, within the body of the church.

I take a guided tour with Isabel, one of the volunteer guides. Isabel is a person conscious of the power of past and of story, and she narrates the history of the cathedral through a series of vignettes, centering them around the various pilgrimage stops of the church, interlinking the present with the past and always making her listeners alive to the continuing presence of those who built the stories.

We begin our pilgrimage in the nave with an account of the origins of the cathedral. It starts on the Holy Island of Lindisfarne where Cuthbert was prior and bishop. Due to Viking threats, the monks abandoned the island in the ninth century, taking with them the uncorrupted body of St. Cuthbert, the head of King Oswald, the bones of St Aidan and other treasures. They settled at Chester-le-Street, remaining there until 995 when further Norse threats caused them to move again.

At one point in this next part of their journey the cart bearing Cuthbert’s coffin became stuck in the ground and could not be dislodged. Then, providentially, one of the brethren overheard two dairymaids discussing the whereabouts of a lost cow, believing it had wandered to ‘Dunholme’. Taking this as a sign from Cuthbert, the monks now easily moved the cart and set off for Dunholme where they began the construction of Cuthbert’s final resting place, and where, presumably, the dairymaid found her lost cow. So Durham cathedral is not so much the home of Cuthbert’s shrine, but a shrine around which a great church was built.

A black marble line runs across the nave. This was the line beyond which in medieval times women could not go. In response to this, Bishop Hugh le Puiset – an enlightened man for his time, according to Isabel – ordered the construction of the Galilee or Lady Chapel where women could worship. The tomb of the Venerable Bede, who wrote a Life of St Cuthbert, lies here. Isabel tells us how a monk called Alfred, annoyed by the lack of veneration shown to Bede in his own monastery at Jarrow, removed (or stole, depending on your interpretation) the body in 1022 and had it buried in Durham cathedral where the great historian might be accorded the respect he deserved.

Another stop takes us to the Quire and the throne or cathedra of the Bishop of Durham. This throne was built by Thomas Hatfield, Bishop of Durham (1345-81), clearly a rather proud man, as at the time his throne was claimed to be the highest in Christendom, higher even than the pope’s throne in St. Peter’s in Rome. This highly decorated work served also as Hatfield’s tomb.

Not all the stories and stops are rooted so deeply in the past. When we come to the breath-taking Pietà, a wooden sculpture by local artist Fenwick Lawson, Isabel recounts another story. The sculpture was loaned to York Minister in 1984. That same year David Jenkins, known for his controversial views on the Virgin Birth and the Resurrection, among other things, was appointed bishop of Durham. Two nights after his consecration York Minster was struck by lightning and went on fire, causing the sculpture to be singed and splattered with lead. This was interpreted by some as divine disapproval for Jenkins’ views, though as one of my fellow pilgrims (who just happens to be a volunteer guide in York Minster) remarks: it was a bit tough on York! However, the view of some was that far from damaging the work, the heaven-sent fire had actually enhanced the sculpture, and Lawson decided not to carry out any remedial work on it.

Image courtesy of Durham World Heritage site

An even more recent story focuses on the stained glass window near the north door. Entitled “Daily Bread”, this work, designed by Mark Angus, is a gift from the local Marks and Spencer’s staff and is an abstract representation in aerial view of the Last Supper.

Once, when taking a group of children on a tour, Isabel asked them to suggest which of the circular shapes representing the apostles might be Judas. The children were a bit flummoxed, but one little boy quickly worked out the answer – it was the green one, of course, because Judas grassed on Jesus!

The pinnacle of the visit for me takes place at Cuthbert’s shrine. He lies behind the high altar beneath a simple stone slab that bears his name in Latin: Cuthbertus. The head of King Oswald lies with him. The shrine is quiet and still, a place for solemn contemplation, and Isabel does not accompany us up the steps that lead to it.

This is not a place where stories are told, it seems, but rather where their meanings are meditated on. I light a candle and think about the many stories I have read and heard about Cuthbert and this great cathedral. I wonder where my story will fit into it all, but that is another day’s work.

 

When I write, I laugh a lot. . .

Lionel Shriver with, left, Associate Director of Creative Writing, Mary Morrissy, and Associate Dean of Graduate Studies, Dr Alan Gibbs.  Photograph: Maeve Bancroft

Just like her writing process, Lionel Shriver’s reading at UCC was peppered with humour despite dealing with the serious political issues of the day, writes Uversity student in creative practice, Luisa Geisler.  

It was an exercise in “complete bullshit”: that’s how Lionel Shriver described the first excerpt she read at the final event in the School of English reading series. The “bullshit” referred to a fictional presidential address that features in her latest novel about a catastrophic economic crisis that overtakes the US, The Mandibles: A Family, 2029–2047.

Shriver, a novelist and journalist, is the author of 13 novels, including the National Book Award finalist So Much for That and the Orange Prize for Fiction winner and international bestseller, We Need to Talk about Kevin.

Released in 2016, The Mandibles: A Family, 2029–2047, portrays a dystopian future in which the dollar goes into freefall and the novel investigates the effects of a fictionalised globalised economic crisis on a family and its money. Before reading the fictional presidential address to the nation, Shriver said she had a ball writing it, and recommended it as a good creative writing assignment. “When I write, I laugh a lot,” she explained

The after-reading discussion was co-chaired by Mary Morrissy, Associate Director of Creative Writing,  and Dr Alan Gibbs, lecturer in American literature, whose research interests cover contemporary American literature and trauma narratives. Shriver had fun with the idea of trauma narrative. “I think that’s all I write, it’s trauma fiction,” she joked.

Dr Gibbs quoted Philip Roth pointing out “that actuality is continually outdoing our [fiction writers’] talents”. Some of the events in the futuristic The Mandibles overlap with recent events in the US. In the novel, the US cannot repay its national debt, and Mexico has built a wall on the border to prevent Americans trying to flee there with their savings. The wall-building echo was clear.  Shriver explained, however, that she started writing the book before Trump began his campaign for president. “So he got the idea from me!”

Shriver’s humour shone through even when discussing difficult themes and explaining part of the research for her novel – economics – which she talked passionately about. She emphasized the importance of polemical writing. “I’m frustrated with the fact that a lot of writers these days are avoiding certain subjects because they’re too scary, too controversial,” she said. “And when you start censoring yourself, that’s the beginning of the end of free speech.”

This statement reflected her approach to the Q&A from the audience, in which she answered questions without hesitation. Two topics seemed to dominate. The first was We Need to Talk about Kevin, Shriver’s novel whose impact persists even though it was released in 2003. Asked about the film adaptation, she said she liked it overall. While complimenting the casting, she felt, however, that “John C. Riley just wasn’t attractive enough for Tilda Swinton”.

The second recurring topic was US President Trump. “I do think he’s a problem for fiction writers,” Shriver said, “he’s so outlandish that I can’t imagine coming up with any fictional character to fill that role who wasn’t comparatively tame.”

Shriver was adamantly against giving in to hysteria as a response to Trump’s power. “He is incompetent, he is stupid and he doesn’t understand how government works. And that means he’s not gonna be good at making it do things.” She tried to end on an optimistic note: “This is a weird thing and a bad thing, but it’s not the end of the world. Maybe we should end on that thought.”

And even if we as an audience didn’t want to be haunted by the thoughts from that discussion, we were.

The reading took place at the Creative Zone, Boole Library, on March 14.

Babel at the ORB

On the eve of International Women’s Day,  the second reading in the School of English International Poetry Series brought together an Italian and Irish poet, each speaking in her own tongue but reaching way beyond the language divide, writes MA student, Úna Ní Cheallaigh.

Poets Laura Accerboni (above) from Lugano, Italy and Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh from Kerry treated us to a cornucopia of language and sound. The need to know the languages spoken was unnecessary; like music, poetry in its lyrical quality can be enjoyed for its soundscape. However, text translations were projected on screen, guiding and enhancing the experience.

When Laura Accerboni stood at the podium to read her seven poem sequence – La Parte Del L’Annegato,(Playing the Drowned, translated by George Tatge), we were taken by surprise.

She faced the audience and without introductions or reference to her script, she spoke not to us but beyond us. Her voice carried to somewhere else and she was a conduit, allowing each line to find its own way into the space. It had an eerie quality, reminding me of the voices from the urns in Beckett’s Play.

This was not a spoken word performance, as the presence of the speaker became irrelevant. There was no separation as she embodied the work. Once she spoke the first line in Italian,

Il freddo/e poco piacevole

(Coldness/is rather unpleasant)

I knew that for me, following the translation on screen would create too many degrees of separation from what was actually happening in the moment. I needed to keep eye contact with the source of the voice. It was mesmerising. Playing the Drowned  is powerful, haunting and elegiac in tone. The poems do stand alone on the page but hearing them spoken aloud by the poet was a gift, that can’t be defined. I was reminded of W. B. Yeats’ question in his poem Among School Children – How can we know the dancer from the dance?

The Irish language poet Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh also raises questions in her poems, an international landscape providing the terrain to explore issues of language, borders, identity and loss.

Such is the territory of Coast Road, (Gallery Press 2017), her recently published bi-lingual selection of the work of Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh, from her two previous collections in Irish, Péacadh and Tost agus Allagar, both published by Coiscéim Press. The poet’s joy in reading from this book for the first time was shared with us; she explained that she had also given birth to her daughter six weeks ago, and this was a special occasion for her to read to us now and a timely celebration.

Her poems, read in Irish and in English, brought us to the Bronx, Harlem, Antartica and back to Tuam. Her reading of Rianta, (Stains), dedicated to Jean McConville and the children of the Bon Secours mother and baby home in Tuam was poignant in the light of discovery of mass graves. Dán do Thadhg, by contrast, celebrated the birth of her nephew.

Her finale poem, a villanelle, Grasse Matineé was a fitting tribute to the festival itself and what it has achieved, the opportunity for languages to speak to each other. The poem was read in English first, a wonderful translation by Alan Gillis which managed to capture the sounds and rhymes of the original. The treat in store for us then was Laura Accerboni reading an Italian translation, which became a feast when Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh read her poem in Irish, the repeated line –

Íosfaimid oráistí ar ball

(We’ll eat oranges later)

Sensuous and tantalising to the listener, but we knew we did not have to wait until later; we had already been guests at a Babylonian feast.

 

 

Chased by Nazis in Dundalk. . .

PhD student Laura McKenna was at the second reading of the School of English  series in which Mike McCormack, Claire-Louise Bennett and Conor O’Callaghan read together.  The different voices led to a discussion of voice  – and place – in writing.

When Conor O’Callaghan, right,  dreams of Nazis chasing him down the streets, those streets always belong to Dundalk.

This observation was typical of the quirky, entertaining and informative discussion that took place during the second of UCC’s School of English Reading Series on January 31, featuring  Mike McCormack, recent winner of the Goldsmiths Prize for Solar Bones, Conor O’Callaghan, poet and novelist and Claire-Louise Bennett, short story writer.

Conor O’Callaghan was first to read. “Just six pages but slowly,” he said. I hadn’t read his novel, Nothing on Earth, but found his excerpt a compelling blend of clear observational prose with an unnerving edge. I’d heard Claire-Louise read before, at the Cork Short Story Festival and I bought her book Pond on the strength of it. Wonderful stuff, but she haunted my own reading of her stories; I could actually hear her voice in my head. It could be due to her theatre background but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a ventriloquist as well as a highly original writer. The spoken words seem to rush out of her in a way that goes beyond the “stream of consciousness” tag. Mike McCormack chose a passage from his book relating to the protagonist’s father, highlighting both the novel’s roots in Mayo and the tone of helplessness in the face of illness/grief/mental disintegration.

So the readings were good but things really kicked off with the discussion afterwards, chaired by Mary Morrissy. The interplay between the speakers was nuanced, considered and at times very funny (which from my limited experience isn’t always the case). They even took to questioning each other.

Roots and place were discussed and the importance of setting; very important it seems for Conor O’Callaghan, always Dundalk, hence the Nazis dream. And besides, until recently Dundalk has not featured highly on the literary map. We’ll have to take his word for that.

When Mike McCormack begins to write, as long as the story is firmly planted in Mayo, then anything can happen, but the inspiration always comes from Mayo. Especially the landscape of Louisburgh. (Which I had to look up when I got home, I mean how does a village in Mayo get such a name? Why, it’s named after the fortress town of Louisburg in Nova Scotia and not due to any recent civic twinning initiative but because a member of Lord Altamont’s family had taken part in a siege the 1758, and although I wondered if he survived.

(I resisted checking but couldn’t help noticing that before the Louisburgh title was conferred upon the presumably unprepossessing Mayo village – if it even amounted to a village back then ­– it was known as Cluain Cearbán which means Meadow of Buttercups and which I believe is a far superior and vastly prettier name than Louisburgh and oh dear, I think Claire-Louise Bennett may be taking up residence in my head again though I’m sure I’m flattering myself and really must stop and revert to the literary evening in question. . . now.)

Claire-Louise Bennett’s landscape of choice is an interior one, that of her character’s consciousness and sub-conscious.

Point of view was discussed and in particular the draw or magnetic pull (Mike McCormack) to the first person perspective, which, it seems, applied to all three writers. In contrast, Mary Morrissy reported setting out to write in the first person in more than one of her novels but finding that third person felt right. Mike wondered if he should push himself to try out other points of view, noting that even in his short story work, the first person perspective takes precedence. Perhaps, he suggested, he should give space to “we”. He didn’t sound convinced. In fact, all four writers conveyed a sense of the voice speaking for itself.

I just hope it doesn’t continue to speak to me!

The next reading in the series is by Lionel Shriver on March 14.