"Grada" & "Pitch the Peat"--Great Irish Bands

Last night Linda and I went to the Beachland Ballroom in Cleveland and heard 2 terrific Irish bands. The first band is from Greater Cleveland (though 3 of the members were originally from Ireland). They are called "Pitch the Peat." http://www.pitchthepeat.com/

They are probably the best traditional Irish band in the Cleveland area. Their fiddler, Nikki Custy, is a tremendous musician and a fine composer of songs and tunes. The flute/whistle player (Pat Custy) is brilliant and I talked to him for a while. He said, "Wait till you hear the next band--'Grada.' Their whistle/flute player (Alan Doherty) is way better than me." And he was right. "Grada" was fabulous, the most ecstatic, fun Irish music I've ever heard. Their virtuoso fiddler, Mattie Mancuso, an Italian-Irish-American from Brooklyn, New York, pulled out a trumpet during one of the tunes and played fabulous jazz trumpet, in a weird fusion of Irish trad and jazz. Alan Doherty and bodhran player, Nicola Joyce, are wonderful vocalists; and Joyce's bodhran playing is simply fantastic. We had a great time at this concert.

Something that struck me as a bit odd: two members of this band are from New Zealand! Grada represents a fusion of cultures and music genres. Here's the band's web site: http://www.gradamusic.com/

Both bands have deep connections to the great city of Galway. I'd love to live in Galway for a while, close to the university, the vibrant town, the Irish-speaking Gaeltacht, and the western sea.

First Irish Poet: Aimhirgin

It is said that the first person to ever set foot in Ireland was Aimhirgin (in full, Aimhirgin Gluingheal mac Mileadh), the warrior-poet. The name would be pronounced something like /AV-ur-GEEN/. Well, that is a tall tale, in a land of tall tales, by the inventors of blarney. But such wonderful blarney! Below is Aimirgin's poem, in Irish-Gaelic and in English, as set forth in the wonderful book Aniar: Voices and Verse from the Edge of the World, by Tadhg Mac Dhonnagain, Ceara Conway, and John Ryan:

Is mé an gaoth ar muir
Is mé an tonn tréan
Is mé glór na mara
Is me seitreach daimh
Is mé seabhac na haille
Is mé an gá greine
Is mé ailleacht na luibhe
Is mé torc ar ar ghail
Is mé an bradan sa linn
Is mé an loch ar an má.

I am the wind on the ocean
I am the crashing wave
I am the song of the sea
I am the bellow of the stag
I am the ray of sunlight
I am the beauty of the herb
I am the furious boar
I am the salmon in the pool
I am the lake on the plain.

Carolan Coughlin Poetry

From time to time I'll post poems by Carolan Coughlin and some other friends. Carolan is my 22-year-old daughter, a recent graduate of Ohio University, currently tramping through New Zealand with her friend Heather Ryerson. Here's a good one:

Lost in the Martian Rivers

Climb in the car
Eyes drooping heavy with the baggage of sleep- lack.
Turn the music up.
Way up.
Shake and vibrate
Heavy bass, slide inside me, throw sleep out the window.
The falcons and buzzards will feast.
Get lost in a cloud of dust winding with the river speckled with tree shade.
Throw the map out the window.
It will float and tumble and find the sleep abandoned so many miles ago.
Examine my hands.
Trace the lines with red permanent marker
Mimicking the dried up Martian rivers.
This is the route we should have been following.
Veer off the road; follow the curves of my alien planet.
Explore my anatomical terrain.
Lean back, hand raised for reference.
Think of discarded maps and empty sleep suffering on the roadside.
My insides rattle and oscillate.
(Carolan Coughlin, 2005)

The Cat Nation--Home of the Erie Indians

The French Jesuits, explorers of Canada, knew about a tribe of Indians on the south shore of Lake Erie, stretching west from what is now the city of Buffalo. They called this tribe "La Nation du Chat," or in English, "The Cat Nation." That apparently was the translation of an Indian name for the tribe. Some years ago I wrote a poem about the Cat Nation:


Cat Nation Ghosts

(--the Erie Indians, known to the French Jesuits as "La Nation du Chat," victims of genocide circa 1655 at the hands of the Iroquois Federation)

only the subtle see the signs:

panthers haunt these woods
leave titillating traces:

names, somewhat corrupted--
Geauga, Chagrin, Cuyahoga, Erie,

ambiguous forts, looking like
natural rock formations
on hills overlooking rivers
and creeks

strangely shaped rocks
chips of flint encrusted
bits of bone and antler

the remnants
haunt the sugar woods

move about on moonless nights
stealthy like the lynx
like the wildcat

we don't forget:

our blood still soaks the rocks
our bones still quicken
the clay:

these woods are full of ghosts!

Mary Fitzpatrick, RIP

Yesterday I attended the funeral mass for Mary Fitzpatrick, nee Mary Finnegan. Mary suffered one of the worst blows imaginable on December 21, 1971, when her husband Jack was murdered in cold blood while standing in line at Higbees with three of his children as they waited to see Santa Claus. Mary, seven months pregnant with her fifth child, was shopping nearby with her oldest daughter Sharon when the tragedy happened. The real story of Mary's life was not the murder, as spectacular as it was. It was her triumph over tragedy as she recovered from this blow and went on to raise five wonderful children--bringing together her large extended family, friends, and the community of Euclid, Ohio. Mary died on March 19th in her Euclid home, surrounded by her family.

I will talk about the beautiful funeral at another time. But for now I want to share a poem I wrote about Mary about a week or so before her death:

No Whining: Mary Fitzpatrick

Who has been stronger than you, Mary,
Who has suffered more?

And through it all, there’s no whining, no self-pity—
A lesson learned from your Irish mother.

When your husband Jack was murdered
Right there in Higbees, waiting with three of the kids,
Waiting to see Santa Claus,

And you, pregnant with Tommy, shopping nearby
With Sharon, your oldest daughter—

The stunning viciousness that life can turn!
I remember the awful keening at the funeral at St. William’s,
The astonished family burying Jack at All Souls on Christmas Eve.

And then you healed,
helped by family and friends.
Al and Catherine practically gave you their house on Eastbrook.
And baby Tommy was born, named after his uncle, fallen in Vietnam.

You raise five children by yourself—with the help of a village,
Some heroes who will never be named, a loving family,
The Irish-American Club of Euclid.

You form the St. William’s Bereavement Ministry—
Who has known more about bereavement? Who has learned more about Grace?
You dance on Wednesday night with dear friends at the Irish-American Club—

You create a wonderful life from the terrible ashes.

Now, in your illness, you still smile, you still don’t whine,
You still witness to the Victory and Grace
and the Victory

Of love.

5th Anniversary of the Cruel War

Today, March 19, 2008, marks the fifth anniversary of the Iraq War--with no end in sight. There have been news reports claiming that John McCain says we could stay in Iraq fighting for a hundred years. I remember when the news announced the invasion on March 19, 2003. As a longtime Catholic, I thought, "The tragedy of it--invading a country, starting a war on the Feast of St. Joseph." It was a slap in the face to Pope John Paul II, who begged Bush not to prosecute this war; worse, it was a slap in the face to Catholics and to all people who believe in war as the absolutely last resort (a basic tenet of Just War Theory).

Think of the costs of this war--in human lives and health, in treasure, and in moral authority. Bush and his cronies have undermined the US Constitution and the Bill of Rights; they have allowed and justified human torture; they have fought the first American preemptive war of choice (think of Pearl Harbor!); and they have spent an incredible amount of American treasure, estimated right now up to a half trillion dollars (that would be $500,000,000,000)--with no end in sight. A recent article in Vanity Fair says that a conservative estimate of the cost of this war is 3 trillion dollars! Bush did this without raising taxes, an action that was extraordinarily deceptive, and one that is fueling inflation and economic chaos.

This war has lasted longer than World War I, World War II, and the Korean War. When will it end? How will our Constitution, Bill of Rights, moral authority, and US treasure ever be restored? The lives lost, the lives in ruin!

Here's a poem for the occasion. Forgive the pre-Vatican II Latin:


"On the Feast of St. Joseph, 2008"

(The 5th Anniversary of the Iraq War)


Miserere, Domine, Miserere Nobis

Spare us O Lord though
We hardly deserve your mercy.

My soul is the gloom sky, the bitter
Rain the long hunger of March.

The crucifixion clouds our minds
The scourging the mocking
The crowning with bitter
Thorns

The death, the blood, white charnel house of bone
Smithereens, Our soul our country!

Parce Domine, Parce Populo Tuo!
Spare, O lord, spare your people

Bring us to peace
Though we hardly deserve it.

Miserere, Domine, Miserere Nobis.

(Robert M. Coughlin
March 19, 2008)

Being a Catholic?

My personal identity involves so many dimensions: being a husband, a father, a teacher, a Catholic, an Irish-American, and the like. I want to reflect a bit on the Catholic part of my identity [much more on this coming soon].

A great article on Catholic identity, by Regina Brett, appeared in today's Plain Dealer. Here's a link to that article: http://www.cleveland.com/brett/index.ssf?/base/opinion-0/120565780860950.xml&coll=2