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RECAP OF LISTOWEL WRITERS’ WEEK 2007

June 07, 2010 By: Laura Category: 2007, creative writing, events, historical, journalism, memoir, novels, organisers, painters & paintings, participants, photographs, poem, poems, poet, poetry, poets, short story, Song, songwriting, Speaker, storytelling, theatrical plays, workshop

Hi everyone. Since I couldn’t get to Listowel this year I decided to spend the time organizing articles I had written or started to write about previous years, and present them to you here as recaps, in that we are all getting older and prone to forgetting…I look forward to any and all accounts of whatever I missd this year…I am sure it was great as always….Thanks to our blogmasters Patrick Stack and Paul O’Mahoney for making this possible…

Listowel “Master” Pieces June, 2007

Text and Photos by Laura Jean Zito laurajeanzito@gmail.com

John B. Keane, Ireland’s leading playwright, looking over my portfolio, remarked, ”Photograph the farmers in Connemara. They’re a dyin’ breed.” As Ireland changes rapidly with the spread of EU money, and developments crop up everywhere, the farming population does seem endangered. The characters that abounded arefewer and farther between, pubs abandon that homey, homely look for the spiffed up, sanitary look of the new millenium. All the more valuable then, the words caught by John B. and transcribed to immortality in his twenty-seven plays and numerous prose works. And all the more endearing the John B. Keane Pub in his hometown Listowel, his original typewriter adorning the windowsill, a bunch of books toppled over on shelf above, and the framed photos, posters and other mementoes of his life strewn about the walls in loving haphazardness.Listowel’s mayor Anthony Curtin declared emphatically, ”He put us on the map,” as the statue of John B. was unveiled June 2nd, cast in bronze by sculptors Seamus and James Connolly, of Kilbaha, who had done the Richard Harris sculpture in Kilkee.

“The best debt of gratitude you can give an actor is a job, and boy did he give us jobs!” mused Niall Toibin, famous comedian and John B.’s favorite Bull McCabe.

“Several generations of thespians owe an enormous debt of gratitude to John B.”
Politician Jimmy Deenihan lauded his old friend, then John B.’s daughter and Chairperson of Listowel Writers Week Joanna Keane O’ Flynn declared, “Here John B. has a bird’s eye view of his town, thanks to the idiosyncrasies of our one-way system.” John B. loved the human touch and his hometown Listowel. This heritage town in County Kerry cleverly encourages pedestrian traffic by making motoring inconvenient. From the Small Square, John B. heads toward St. John’s Theatre, the centerpiece of a large mainmarket square bordered on one side by the town’s only hotel, the Listowel Arms. He strolls down the street with his hand outstretched, this day greeting all the town, local and national public dignitaries, literary celebs from far and wide, wife Mary and son Billy who run his famous literary pub, two other sons, Conor and John, cousins, grand-children and other family members, inspiring one and all to

reach out and touch him back.

John B. initiated Listowel Writers Week 37 years ago with Bryan MacMahon, Tim Daneher, Nora Relihan, and others. Bryan MacMahon, writer of an award-winning novel, “The Master,” and locally known as the “Master,” a position in reality he shared with John B., wrote plays centered more on society’s intellectual dialogues, while John B. chose to preserve the organic tones of the working classes. ”The Street,” a collection of John B.’s poems by Mercier Press, was launched at Listowel Writers Week in 2003, on the first anniversary of his death, and dozens of other books have launched during the festival, including Billy Keane’s “The Last Of the Heroes.”

Joseph O’Connor opened Writers Week this year with an Awards party at which he

announced Roddy Doyle as the winner of the hefty 10,000 Euro Kerry Group Irish Fiction Award for “Paula Spencer.” Joe, author of the popular ”The Secret World of the Irish Male,” ”The Irish Male at Home and Abroad,” and “Sweet Liberty: Travels in Irish America,” is back from a residency at the New York Public Library. Thursday morning, the five short-listed novelists gave readings, and he read from his new novel, ”Redemption Falls.”

“Lunchtime Theatre,” another Listowel tradition, offered “Bookworms,” a unique take on word-play by the Beehive Theatre. Characters dressed as worms gave a captivating performance showing just how playful words can be.

Andrew Motion, Poet Laureate since 1999, who, calling himself ”town-crier, can-opener and flag-waver for poetry,” co-founded the Poetry Archive, was followed by Gerard Donovan.

Presently a New Yorker, Gerard won the Kerry Group prize in 2004 with

“Schopenhauer’s Telescope” and his latest novel, “Julius Winsome,” made this year’s short-list.

Next up William Palmer, winner of the 2006 Collections Prize, launched a published version of the poems,”The Island Rescue.”

Colm Toibin, president of Writer’s Week and 2005 winner of the IMPAC Dublin

Literary Award for his novel,”The Master,” read from his latest, about a mother’s response to her paedophilic priest son. All this in just the first afternoon!

Thursday evening began with an Amnesty International Event. Gerard Stembridge, co-writer with Dermot Morgan of “RTE’s “Scrap Saturday,” defined the relationship of the artist to Amnesty International. Fergal Keane, BAFTA recipient, “Reporter of the Year”, Independent columnist and author of the ‘95 Orwell prize-winner “Season of Blood,” is known for no-holds-barred, emotionally charged reporting from Northern Ireland to Rwanda. The slate was completed by Zlata Filipovic, whose ”Stolen Voices, Young People’s War Diaries From World War I to Iraq,” travelling across the globe at the speed of translation, is an outcome of her own 1993 bestselling teenage diary of war-torn Sarajevo. John McAuliffe, a native Listowellian who directs “Poetry Now” at Dun Laoghaire and the Creative Writing Program at the University of Manchester, launched “Next Door,” his second collection, at the Plaza, the original theatre in town.

Anyone who has seen the latest movie reviews here and abroad can hardly have failed to notice the clean sweep of interest by “Once,” a small-budget film by ex-Frames bass-player John Carney that won the Audience Award at Sundance and

boosted musician and Frames-bandleader-turned actor Glen Hansard into an overnight Boy Wonder. Much later that night he was sitting on the floor of the Listowel Arms Hotel, surrounded by a bevy of young international friends that were enrolled in his songwriting workshop. Writers Week was started to hold workshops giving newbies a chance to interact with already successful writers. Monika, an Eastern European long-time associate of Glen’s, exclaimed, “Though he’s long been one of Ireland’s most popular rock-stars, he’s as down-to earth as can be!”

Looming symbolically behind him was the beautiful skylight of the Listowel Arms Hotel, always the setting for the Festival, most especially late at night for drinking bouts without no end in sight where one can really get down to the nitty-gritty with

literati around the bar. That’s where I was later that night after the Paddy McCabe “cabaret” ”Radio Butty,” in which Paddy as performer mercilessly poked fun at everyone who refuses to poke it at themselves. This show, loosely based on radio shows of the fifties, had little acts, like Peter Trant doing a ”Guy Noir” ala

Garrison Keeler, and a “Bruce Lee is My Best Friend”riff, parodying the one we all know whose claim to fame is being convinced they know someone famous. Niall Toner and friend Joe made ridiculously frenzied rock ‘n roll expressions while strumming their guitars to famous 50’s songs and singing at super low volume for hilarious effect. Paddy’s brilliance was especially brought to light by his ownmagnanimous way of reading from his works, such as “Breakfast on Pluto,” and “Butcher Boy,” to a backdrop projection of Peter Trant’s newly photoshopped slides of olde Ireland, and set off with an array of technological gadgetry and a statue of John Wayne with an oversized head. Back at the Arms, Marie Shanahan, from Best of Irish, taking Gerry Stembridge’s workshop in sitcom writing, decided that Peter Trant looked exactly like George Clooney as he bought us drinks, especially when he laughed, so we proceeded to amuse him as much as we could. A young admirer to our left broke out his guitar to serenade Marie, who though

Irish, hails from Nice. She detailed an extensive international itinerary of her diurnal routine marketing fish to gourmet restaurants. As her sit-com will be about fishmongering, I proferred up, “A Plaice in the Sun,” but maybe they didn’t see the Montgomery Clift/ Elizabeth Taylor version of “An American Tragedy.” Marie threw out “I’m Your Sole Mate,” and Sean baited us with ”Cod in the Middle.” Fits of laughter ensued when I hatched ”Deep Trout.”

By 2:30, Cliodhna Ni Anluain at our table needed a lift to her B&B. She had been up early that morning, making a taping of live Listowel readers for the “Sunday Miscellany” broadcast of RTE Radio1, an annual Writers Week event and much coveted possibility to hear oneself on the radio. “What a marvelous time I had here in Listowel!” she said as we agreed how very Joycian the whole experience was, what with musical interludes tucked into every nuance. Indeed, the following night the performance at St. John’s was just that, an elucidation of the songs to which Joyce referred in “Ullyses,” “Finnegans Wake,” “Dubliners,” “A Portrait of the Artist” and “Chamber Music.” Joyce was a highly accomplished singer and pianist, like his father, and made as much reference to songs of his day as to literature in his works. (Pictures coming)

Friday morning, for lunchtime theatre, American Martha Furey had not only done

all the staging, costuming and props for her wonderful memoir of Isadora Duncan, which she performed so exquisitely, but she had also written the piece. Quel imagination! She has a series of one-person plays she performs and wrote, Georgia O’Keefe, Emily Dickinson, several more. You feel you are in the same room with Isadora as she looks over the substance of her life. Martha lives now in Cork, but is ready to travel with her one-woman shows anywhere on the planet.

Her brilliant performance compensated the disappointment of missing the much-hailed poet Roger McGough, who helped write the Beatles “Yellow Submarine.” Roger’s entertaining style was still the talk on Sunday.

This year, the abundance of performances overlapping in time, so that one cannot see it all, makes me think, ”The poor chaps taking workshops, they are missing everything!” Perhaps the workshops should be held the week previous, though they are always sold out well in advance. I also had to pass on History-Brought-To-Life with Alice Hogge and Alison Weir to get to veteran Listowel art exhibitor Maria Simonds-Gooding’s show of landscapes of Dingle at the Seanchai Literary

and Cultural Center, writers’ museum extraordinaire. We discovered our mutual interest in the Sinai Desert. She sold a piece of hers to the Metropolitan Museum through a curious story. She had done an etching at the Santa Katerina Monastery, given it to the monks, where it was seen and admired by chance by the Met’s curator passing-through! I convinced several of her lovely friends, such asBrigitte Downey,(”Diaries of a Cultured Cat,”) into hurrying along to the Esther Perel presentation of her new book, ”Mating in Captivity- Reconciling the Erotic and the Domestic.” They said they knew how already, been-there-done-that, but upon the suggestion that people-watching-who-else-might-be-attending might be the real draw, they readily agreed and off we sauntered to the packed hotel ballroom. Esther had her audience in rapt attention.

Hailing from her New York family therapist practice, she said, “This is my first time in Ireland, and I never realized the interest here would be so high!” When Writers Week first began, she would never have gotten a platform with her subject matter, which I might sum up as “The only good sex is bad sex.” Judging by audience reaction, times have certainly changed! I can still remember when my brother got slapped for mentioning the word birth-control in a pub to a girl in Roscommon.

Positively gleaming in a silky linen pale pink suit that complemented her thick naturally blonde hair, the intrepid Madeleine O’Sullivan, original chairperson and now a permanent director of the Festival, launched at the Boys’ School the memoir of George Rowley, also one of the founding organizers. She put together, with

teacher Margaret Broderick, a splendid exhibition of articles, arranged year by year for all 37 years of the festival. ”We stayed up every night for three weeks straight to find all the most interesting stories!” laughed Madeleine. Madeleine was one of the first people to have the foresight to see that the Listowel Writers Week would take on an international persona, quoted in 1984 saying, “Now is the time to move beyond the native, towards the creation of an international festival of literature in all the languages, a celebration of the living word in all its forms, a polyglot panorama of international imagination.”

After the evening Joyce event, back at the Arms, some people invited me to their table to sing-along to Beatles songs with their friend on guitar. Paul McNeive turned out to be a great second choice to Glen Hansard, whose late-night Frames concert that night at St. John’s sold out two months previously. Paul made it to the top ten in an English American Idol with his band, the Savills. (www.partynearthepark.co.uk) Clio whispered that he was actually a real-estate mogul from Dublin who had helicoptered them all there, although in his jeans and wailing Oasis tunes, he seemed more like his look-alike, Bono.

On Saturday Neil Beasley, an artist and musician (www.myspace.com/zeppoed) and grandson to Maureen Beasley, the well-known poet and organizer of WritersWeek since its inception, accompanied me to the unveiling of the new statue of John B. Keane in the Small Square. Joanna Keane O’Flynn spoke about her father’senduring legacy and thanked everyone for taking the time to honor him, quipping “Time is the new money.” When Neil Toibin went to lift the velvet cloth, the crowd

pressed forward, swarming instantly within inches of the statue, as if a giant magnet were pulling them in closer to hear his story. Snaps were taken in the general mayhem, and John B. himself would have loved the sheer havoc of it all, the lack of pomp and circumstance that would have put a rigid artificiality on to the celebration. Children especially abounded, playing accordians and fending off impending rain with bright smiles.

After the unveiling, we chilled out at St. John’s to the comedy of Nualas founder

Anne Gildea. (I think that’s her on the left, in front of the Listowel Arms having a chat with Seamus Hosey from RTE). Anne, cited by the NY Times as “wackily original,” was ridiculously funny in a most bawdy sort of way. She thoroughly shocked an eighty-year old woman in the front row by grabbing her crotch in mockery of American rappers who do the same on stage. ”What is that all about?” she cried out. ”Maybe I should do it more like this?” as she began stroking herself. Most of the audience burst into laughter.

On a more serious note, Melvyn Bragg, author with Norman Jewison of the screenplay, “Jesus Christ Superstar,” and President of the National Campaign for the Arts, went over the content of his latest book, ”Twelve Books That Changed the World,” to an SRO audience soaking up his wisdom.

Then, two first novel launches, Liam Browne, program director of the Dublin Writers’ Festival, with ”The Emigrant’s Farewell” and Mia Gallagher, a short-story writer and stage performer, with ”Hellfire.”

Two readings followed, by Irvine Welsh, famous for “Trainspotting” and a Monday column in the Daily Telegraph, and by Alain de Botton, author of “The Art of Travel,” ”How Proust Can Change Your Life,” ”Status Anxiety,” ”Essays in Love,” ”The Architecture of Happiness,” and presenter of a TV series to go with his “Consolations of Philosophy.”

Psychology was the theme of the evening’s show, Paddy McCabe’s“Frank Pig Says Hello,” with its portrayal of the macabre demise of a disturbed Irish youth of the 60’s into a pit of violence and insanity. Abstractly weaving life’s phases, two actors assumed multiple roles in a difficult, fantastic work of art.

Back at the hotel the storytelling competition, dedicated to Eamon Kelly, was wrapping up with announcements of winners. I met Neil’s cousin, named Kevin Barry, after the famous rebel song, at a songfest out back with the friends of Glen Hansard. He offered to lend me an extra memory card for my camera for Sunday’s events. On the way out, 3:00 AM again, George Rowley called out across the asphalt, “Be sure to be at the “Healing Party” tomorrow at John B.’s at noon!”

Marie had insisted I see the Sunday lunchtime theatre “Allergic to Beckett” “Because,” she said, “it’s absolutely crying laughing funny.” Hopefully some other time, some other place. John B’s at noon was definitely the right time and the rightplace. Despite the packed bar, I found a high window ledge with room to move to get a few photos. Marie found her way there too after the play. One famouscrooner or bard after another got up to sing or recite in a steady stream, with Billy playing Maitre D’. Surely the super verve that the statue unveiling had brought to town had affected this gathering with enthusiasm that exuded from every ear and throat. Old farmers whipped up witty anecdotes, young girls sung sweet ballads,

crumpled poems were grabbed out of pockets and emoted with extra emphasis and melodies streamed out of tin pipes in a potpourri of relaxed bon vivance which everyone was welcome to share. I looked around with thirsty eyes at the chaotic scene. How much faith the people had in each other to proscribe a dogmatic approach that would only serve to suppress this natural creative juice!

Speaking of juice, I ran quickly out on my cards so skipped out to the Arms to fetch the extra card Kevin Barry promised to loan me. Sure enough, the concierge had it! Only in Listowel, where the artistic urge is a given is the need so well-understood! I stopped in for a moment at the Seanchai Center to get a pic of Giles Foden reading from his novel, “The Last King of Scotland.” By his narrative, the Oscar-winning filmscript followed closely his novel’s text.

At St. John’s, the tribute to Poetry Ireland head Michael Hartnett, to whom this

year’s festival was dedicated, had a reading by Katie Donovan, editor of “Ireland’s Women,Writings Past and Present,” but the lure of John B.’s drew me back there. On my way up the street, I ran in to John from Templeglantine and told him about the “Healing Party.” He was thrilled to find out, exclaiming later, “It was one of the best afternoons of my life!”

Eventually everyone ended up in the pub’s back garden in the orangy afternoon

with four virtuosos fiddlin’ up a storm. One had spilled something on his shirt, taken it off and hung it to dry on a clothesline right through the middle of the crowd. The sun shone through it light blue like an extra cloud in the sky wafting just over the headline of the players and audience. Like a surreal dancer in the sky.

I jumped next door for a moment to the Mermaid, to the Poetry Corner Open Mic, because I promised Dan Griffin to hear his recitation of a poem he wrote at John B.’s funeral about hands. About how nothing is being made by hand anymore. About the blacksmith’s hand and the letter-writer’s hand. And the poker player’s hand and the surgeon’s hand. But that the best hand was the hand that stretched out to greet you.

John Sexton was reading “The Green Owl,” for which Katie Donovan awarded him as winner of the Poetry Competition 700 Euros and a slim volume to be published and launched at next year’s Festival!

Now for the grand finale event, John B. Keane’s “Big Maggie” at St. John’s. Years ago at the Abbey Theatre, Brenda Fricker, (Christy Brown’s mother in the film, “My Left Foot,”) gave a more sympathetic interpretation. Susan Cummins, a Shakespearean actress from Cork, noted for performing Keane’s women, portrayed Big Maggie more like a psychopathic control-freak than an overbearing mother. How times have changed!

After the play I returned to John B.’s for one more pint of Guinness to finish off the festival. I found George Rowley in there talking up a storm with Denis Costello, a music critic and classical guitarist who had toured with Nora Relihan, due to arrive in NYC to pick up an award of his own from the New York Film Festival for his Arts and Entertainment show on RTE radio. We kept it up till they kicked us out, then headed over to the Arms to have “a cup of coffee.” The concierge bought that and let us in, even though it was way after hours. The “craic” was fantastic once again and we were up till the wee hours with the other stragglers having too much fun to go home. One thing was clear to me, the writers of Listowel are sure not “a dyin’ breed”.

“Listowel Master Pieces” Copyright 2007 Laura Jean Zito All Rights Reserved For use of any photos and/or text contact laurajeanzito@gmail.com

RECAP of LISTOWEL WRITERS WEEK 2008

June 06, 2010 By: Laura Category: 2008, creative writing, events, historical, journalism, memoir, novels, organisers, painters & paintings, participants, photographs, poet, poetry, poets, Reflections, short story, Speaker, theatrical plays

Listowel Writers’ Week 2008 “Writing by Feale”Photos and Text by Laura Jean Zito laurajeanzito@gmail.com

Seamus Heaney opened the festivities of the Listowel Writers’ Week 2008. And what a draw he is! Of course, the house was packed to the rafters and out onto the streets as he read from his latest volume, “District and Circle.” He presided over the awards, the Kerry Group Irish Fiction Award going to Anne Enright for “The Gathering,” her novel about a dysfunctional family that also won the Man Booker Prize in 07. The author, TV director and producer and mother from Wicklow County took the distinction over Joseph O’Connor’s “Redemption Falls,” James Ryan’s “South of the Border,” David Park’s “The Truth Commissioner,” and Julia Kelly’s “With My Lazy Eye.”

Nuala O Faolain, who died a few weeks before on May 9,was given a wonderful tribute by her many friends in attendance. Just last year I took this pic of her here in Listowel, where she was teaching a workshop, and was judge for the MemoirPrize, set up in her honor. She awarded it to Jennifer Farrell as the inaugural recipient. I remember when we met at Barnes & Noble in Bryn Mawr a few years back now as she was signing “Are you Somebody?” She was the somebody who validated so many people’s personal experiences with her example, including my own.

The doting audience got the real prizes, the living presence of these important authors among them, just milling about the Listowel Arms, always the setting for the hub of Writers’ Week, having conversations left and right as the evening wore on. I remember the first time I came here, and Bryan McMahon stopped me in the street and said, “Never feel shy!”I promised I wouldn’t and then he hired me to fill in for a lecturer that had failed to show up!

Cliodhna Ni Anluain topped off the morning with the annual Sunday Miscellany event for which she is famous as the RTE Radio program’s producer, and editor of several of its anthologies in book form. Another one is due out in October featuring 2006-20008 excerpts from Seamus Heaney, Anne Enright, Colm Toibin, and Joseph O’Connor, mixing anecdotal tales and topical treatises with their compatriots in a potpourri of texts for readers to savour.

Readers got readings galore as the day progressed. I entered the hushed ballroom of the Arms, and was drawn to sit by an artist, sketching John Banville as he spoke about identities in a new global and technological synthesis of culture that we are all subject to of late.

I found his simple old-fashioned method of depiction refreshing. So few people draw or paint from life anymore. As a photographer I find it much more interesting than sketching from photos, where one’s viewpoint is already formed. So often I am disappointed at art galleries lately where artists just seem to be copying information from photographs rather than creating something completely different. Seems techno tools cause laziness!

Gemma Billington’s expansive Kerry landscapes display none of those downfalls. On exhibition at the St. John’s Theatre I enjoyed them with a glass of wine, and that was something I could identify with. They were amorphous, undetailed, foggy, vibrant in color, suggestions of fences and rooftops scratched into the fields of hue. Her favorite was “Through the Gap,” she said about the gap between Southand North Kerry, or the gap between one level of consciousness and a higher one. Or was that a stroke to the festival organizers and attendees? After her vernissage, Joe Murphy made the customary announcements in customary good humor, and then introduced Martin Lynch, who put on a one-man

show, “The Humours of the Troubles,” about the North, of course.

Julien Gough read next, writing from two points of view, in “The Orphan and the Mob,” a prologue to his novel “Jude: Level One.” He won the BBC Short Story Competition with this first person and third person perspective, about a guy who had two penises apparently. Having it both ways? Losing identity? Deliberately? Seems to be the theme this year. Defining identity and its importance in the larger scheme of things.

In the audience I met my flat –mate, an English teacher from Sydney, who invited me for an apple tart and a glass of Merlot at the Arms. She speaks fluent French and Italian, is 67 and has the body of a teenager, running a mile every morning. She told me she’d whispered in Julian Gough’s ear he had to take responsibility for his characters. He didn’t like that and immediately got up from the signing table, flicking the ankle length thin silver scarf over his shoulder as he departed.

Later outside, I asked for his autograph I had missed, and he signed with tongue in cheek the polaroid his father had given me as we chatted there, that he took of an orange sunset, “To Laura Jean Zito, We will always have our memories of those sweet Morocco nights…..Love, Julian” Maybe the teacher was right, but the organizers were giving out about her remarks to him. All stroking, no poking for them, I guess. The American hostess, our mutual landlady, had already gotten wind of it through her grapevine by the time I got home after midnight. The Australian said through the wine, “When going to the opera, expect the Italians to have the best parts.” She doesn’t understand why everyone wants so badly to homogenize. Why they are building a highway through the hill of Tara? Why Julien is pissing on the past, writing about orphans without identities pissing on monuments of historical figures from generations back as they make their way to traditional celebrations? It annoyed her that the young Irish girls in the audience were laughing along with him, and that she felt they didn’t know what they were laughing at.

Our landlady, on the other hand, doesn’t go to the literary events, calling them incestuous. She seems lonely and needs attention as I type. I was writing to my sweetie about everything that was going on, my only chance being after midnight since every day at Listowel is so jam-packed with events. I was trying to find another love poem to send him.

After that glass of wine earlier with the teacher from Sydney I had met Galway poetess Caroline Lynch at the Arms. Turned out she knew Elizabeth Spires,

had been her protégé of sorts, as we discovered when I sought her advice about which poem I should send my new amour for flirts. She recognized the lines of the one he sent me as Elizabeth’s “In Heaven It Is Always Autumn” in seconds, and then I revealed that my heartthrob had studied under her at Vassar. She didn’t have any love poems of her own in her repertoire that I could send off though…not yet, anyway…Off we went to her launch at the Plaza for her new book “Lost in the GaelTeacht.”

Later that evening, at St. John’s Theatre, I saw “The Faith Healer,” by Brian Friel, performed by members of AC Productions, also about point of view. Friel’s intriguing play, some say his most transcendant, is built on four monologues by three characters, the husband, Frank Hardy, his wife, Grace Hardy, and his agent, Teddy. Each monologue is a different view of the same life path. By not meeting up on stage, the characters reinforce the isolation that each human’s mental and emotional life must by definition abide, despite all effort to be connected to each other. I got curious and discovered that Ralph Fiennes had made this part his own and was said to be remarkable in it.

Here is a still from another drama I saw during the lunchtime theatre agenda at

St. John’s. Can anyone tell me which one it is? O.K. Admittedly, Listowel Writers Week is known for its late nights, where people might stay up in the lobby of the Arms till five in the morning, singing and reading aloud and playing the piano and all sorts of special performances taking place…all with great quantities of alcohol imbibed by almost all…

Points of view abounded in the Film Club’s offering of Todd Haynes’ “I’m Not There,” in which Bob Dylan tells his life story through the renderings of a variety of characters, most touchingly Cate Blanchett.

Saturday David McWilliams spoke about an altogether different point of view,how important it is for Ireland to wake up and sniff out its own genetic progeny in whatever country they emigrated to and grant them Irish passports, before the offspring of Chinese immigrants get granted more rights in Ireland than someone who is actually Irish by blood. He has many important economic points to make and I will have a look at his books, “The Pope’s Children,” “Follow the Money,” and “The Generation Game,” which he obligingly signed for all those interested.

Paddy Bushe, living locally in Kerry after years in Australia, read from his recently published, “To Ring In Silence: New and Selected Poems” in which he had translated his own poems from his previous collections as well as classic Irish poems.

poems. He has won the Listowel Writers Week Poetry Prize, the Strokestown Poetry Prize and the Michael Hartnett Award, among others. He’s known for setting up poetry workshops in foreign locales for all those interested in combining their writing desires with gadding about the planet.

Weeshie Fogarty launched “The Essential Gabriel Fitzmaurice” at the Plaza.

Gabriel is known for leading historical tours about the local area. Until I have time to develop the actual film I shot of Seamus Heaney strolling about the Square with Gabriel, a Listowel native, here is the only pic I have digitally from the Healing Party at John B’s in 2007. There’s that technology, taking over again, just like John Banville said!O.K. It was after another very late night! That’s why it’s called a healing party after all! There is a lot more to expound about Writers’ Week 2008 but I will beg off until I have developed all the film. Please return again here and I will update this article with more pics and text! For more about Listowel Writers’ Week in general, please read my recap of Listowel Writers’ Week 2007 and 2009 on this blogsite, listowelwritersweekfringe.com

“Writing By Feale” Copyright 2008 Laura Jean Zito All Rights Reserved For use of any photos and/or text contact laurajeanzito@gmail.com

Winners read: Humourous Piece

June 05, 2010 By: Patrick Stack Category: 2010, short story, video

[flv:http://www.clarepoets.com/lww/of-mice-and-men.flv 480 360]

RECAP of Listowel Writers’ Week 2009

June 03, 2010 By: Laura Category: 2009, creative writing, events, historical, journalism, memoir, novels, painters & paintings, participants, photographs, poem, poems, poet, poetry, poets, Reflections, short story, songwriting, Speaker, storytelling, theatrical plays

RECAP of Listowel Writers’ Week 2009

“Poet’s Life” by Laura Jean Zito (Photos and text) laurajeanzito@gmail.com

“Where’s your husband?” yelled the man exiting the theatre, St. John’s Church, in the main square in Listowel, Ireland.

“Do I care, if Gabriel Byrne’s about?” retorted a woman as I passed her.

Gabriel Byrne himself had expressed surprise as to just what an object of female adoration he was regarded here in Listowel, where he opened the 39th Annual Writers Week Wednesday, May 27th, 2009. Inside the theatre he had been reciting a poem he penned for the “Sunday Miscellany” program that is aired on RTE radio every Sunday morning. His oratory the night before for the opening night ceremonies made less reference to writing and more to film, as he recounted an amusing anecdote about a cab driver in Dublin who, upon recognizing him, pitched his own script about a cocaine dealer that he insisted Gabriel would be perfect for, along with fellow “gang” members Pierce Brosnan, Liam Neeson, Colin Farrell. “And what about Stephen Rea?” he asked. You can see this speech on You Tube.

Gabriel talked about how the only reference to 39 that came to mind was the film and recent play from John Buchan’s novel, “The 39 Steps,” about the archetypal “man who knew too much” that had launched Hitchcock’s career in 1935 and spawned several remakes, including a 2008 BBC television production.

Gabriel delighted the crowd by reminding them of the warm welcome he never forgot when he had first come to Listowel many years ago, cast as the lead in “Dev,” by GP Gallivan and directed by Peter Sheridan of the Projects Theatre in Dublin. Later I heard Gabriel elaborate on an RTE radio interview that his love affair with Listowel was deepened by an actual “romantic liaison,” as he put it, set in the town here. He went on to say how honored he felt to be asked to return to open the world-renowned literary festival on this eve when the winners of so many important literary competitions would be announced.

In his Intro, Michael Lynch had already pointed out that 2009 marked the 100th anniversary of the birth of Bryan MacMahon, Writers’ Week founder, along with John B. Keane. John B’s play

“Sive” was enjoying via the Listowel Players the 50th anniversary of its first staging in 1959, a year before it won the All Ireland finals. 2009 also marks the 30th anniversary of the last taping of an episode of the Reardons, in which Gabriel Byrne got his start as a sheep farmer before appearing on Bracken, and the morrow would bring with it the performance of “Sive” in St. John’s Theatre on the seventh anniversary to the day of John B.’s death.

Another writer died this year, beloved by many, David Marcus, an Irish Jewish writer and editor of fiction and poetry who hailed from Cork. The ee cummings poem he loved the most that Niall MacMonagle read at his funeral, “what if a much of a which of a wind” was shared with the audience by Colm Toibin, President of the Festival.

The Euro 15,000.00 Kerry Group Irish Fiction Award was taken by Joseph O’Neill for “Netherland,” a book that Barak Obama himself was quoted in the NY Times to have said was, “wonderful,” (without specifically pinpointing what appealed to him.) Seamus Heaney’s wife even made a copy of “Netherland,” her 09 anniversary gift to her husband, adding to its aura.

Thursday morning O’Neill read from his tome, followed by others.

David Park, although a Protestant from Belfast, by developing the Sinn Fein character in his novel, “The Truth Commissioner”, noted that he developed sympathies he didn’t know he had. To paraphrase, he said something like ‘Truth is relative to whoever is considering it.’ When you seek out truth some of it is probably going to be damaging to one’s own political point of view. When his teenage daughter asked him “Are the troubles coming back in?” he said “No,” as the groundswell against the atrocities had grown so big that it was hard to conceive such a notion. He failed to mention the most recent atrocities, those of the night previous, in which an innocent Catholic man was beaten to death by eight Protestants, who then targeted the dead man’s son.

The themes of love and death seemed to carry all through the festival, right up to the reading of Colm Toibin from his recent novel, “Brooklyn.” He drew inspiration for the novel’s main character, a female emigrant to Brooklyn from Wexford in the fifties, from a woman who came to visit at his house after his father died when Colm was 12. She spoke about her one daughter who had also died, and another who had emigrated to Brooklyn, a word that then took on mythical proportion.

After was heard a witty interview by Billy Keane of George Kimball,


American sports writer for the Boston Herald, who now writes the “America At Large” column for the Irish Times. He read excerpts from his best-seller 2008 boxing classic, “Four Kings: Leonard, Hagler, Hearns, Duran and the Last Great Era of Boxing.”

Rebecca Miller, the daughter of playwright Arthur Miller and photographer Inge Morath, read from her first novel, “The Private Lives of Pippa Lee,” published in 2008, currently being filmed. She won the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance for a screenplay adaptation of her own short story collection “Personal Velocity.” She also directed Daniel Day Lewis, her husband, in her film “The Ballad of Jack & Rose.” The film is screened in the Festival’s film club in its nightly screenings at the Classic Cinema.

“All About Eve” was performed by the Classic Revival Theatre fromDublin in a remake of Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s classic directed by Pegeen Coleman.

After a spectacular recitation of Herman Melville’s “Moby Dick” byConor Lovett of the Gare St. Lazare Players, I was filled with admiration for the actor’s talent at interpreting the text as well as expressing it. This performance is not to be missed.

Other theatre pieces in the nightly lineup of plays included a treatise on incest that is bounding continents, “On Raftery’s Hill” written byMarina Carr and performed by the Allen Little Theatre from County Kildare.

Also noteworthy, I found Ballinrobe’s Benny McDonnell’s

“Bondi Beach Boy Blue,” about attaining goals in the sports world, and other worlds, as two hurling teens hurl themselves Australia to represent Kilkenny.

After a wonderful art exhibition opening reception at the St. John’sTheatre of splendidly painted landscapes by ,

Joanna Keane O’Flynn, the daughter of Ireland’s most celebrated playwright,

John B. Keane, introduced John Montague, who announced it was his birthday. The audience received the presents of many of his poems read aloud by himself, and then his books readily signed thereafter.

Dermot Bolger, famous for his plays, poetry volumes and nine novels, as well as his associations with Trinity College and the Abbey Theatre, rounded things out on Sunday, the final day of the Festival.

The last word was had by Carol Drinkwater, known as Helen Herriot in the BBC’s “All Creatures Great and Small.” She wrote a best-selling award-winning children’s novel, “The Haunted School.” She is filming a documentary series around the Mediterranean Basin with UNESCO about the history and culture of the Olive Tree, based on her series of memoirs.

Most everyone could be found after at the “Healing Party” in John B’s Pub, anannual tradition to top off the oratory on the last day of Writers’ Week. The last

night was filled till the wee hours with memorable melodies, several by James Sheehan of the Dubliners,

sung and strummed by the Listowel Arms Hotel stayers and savourers of every last crumb of culture of the 2009 festival.

Certainly this all bodes well for the life of the Listowel Writers’ Week and for the celebrations of its 2010 40th Annual.

All inquiries can be directed to info@writersweek.ie or by calling 011 353 68 21074

“Poet’s Life” Copyright 2009 Laura Jean Zito All Rights Reserved For use of any photos and/or text contact laurajeanzito@gmail.com


Book Launch

June 03, 2010 By: Blog Team Category: 2010, poems, poet, poetry, short story

Book Launch

Book Launch

At 12pm in the Plaza Centre, a huge crowd assembled for the launch of Matt Mooney‘s collection of poems “Falling Apples” and Neil Brosnan‘s collection of short stories “Fresh Water“.

Matt read a lengthy selection of poems from his book to the appreciative crowd. Neils book was launched by Billy Keane and selections from the book were read by John McGrath and Marian Finan Hewitt. Rumour has it that most of the huge crowd are now on their way to a ‘secret location’ for a celebratory session of ‘ceol agus craic’.

Pauline Fayne

Mattie Lennon’s true story: Billy Keane features

June 04, 2009 By: Paul O'Mahony Category: blogs, events, historical, participants, short story, Street drama

Mattie Lennon & Billy Keane

Mattie Lennon & Billy Keane

Cash for Ashes

Man, when he burns, leaves only a handful of ashes. no woman can hold him … “? (Tennessee Williams)

A celebrity hit the headlines recently when he stated publicly that he had snorted his father’s ashes. He gained further publicity when he denied it. Jokes about spilled urns are legion but how many people think about the commercial side of it? I know I didn’t until about a year ago.

It was the Friday of Writer’s Week 2006. I was walking up William Street, Listowel, minding my own business when I was accosted by one William Joseph Keane, (AKA Billy Keane) publican, journalist, author, raconteur, comedian and entrepreneur.

After I had congratulated him on the publication of Moss Keane, The Last of The Heroes and his most erudite newspaper articles in the Irish Independent, he said, “Matt” (he always drops the “ie” because he says Matt is the opposite to gloss). “Matt” says he ” you are logical, methodical and mathamathecal and you must have people and survival skills since you have managed to stay on the pay-roll of Dublin Bus for more than thirty years. I have a busines s proposition for you “.

It turned out that he had come up with the idea of building a crematorium in Lyracrompane and he wanted me to be his business partner. He had even settled on a name for the project, The Pyre in Lyre.

In tones more stentorian than soft I set about convincing him that a mobile crematorium would be a better idea (have you ever tried convincing a Keane about anything?)

Listen” says I, “Kerry has held an almost permanent lease on Croke Park for most of the twentieth century, has a thriving tourist industry since the Famine (if not before it) and now you have Fungie and John O’ Donoghue. You produced Brendan Kennelly, Kitchener and Paudi O’Shea”. (I didn’t, at the time know that they were going to send Micko Dwyer up to Wicklow).? “And now” says I, “you want to locate the only crematorium outside Dublin in Kerry?”

I did lower my voice on spotting the arrival of Dublin poet Martin Delany. Martin has a, Bronte like, penchant for writing about graveyards and I didn’t want to upset his sensitivities. After all a man who commemorates the faithful departed in iambic parameter mightn’t favour their being reduced to ashes by conflagration. He believes they should spend eternity under a weathered tombstone.

I pointed out to Mr.Keane that although I was familiar with all the writings of his father, the late John B., I couldn’t find any reference in his works to the incineration of the dead.

He burned midnight oil writing about wakes, funerals, grave digging and other allied activities but not a word about cremation.

I asked him where he got the idea for the crematorium from but he was abruptly and conveniently distracted by the arrival of two visiting literary heavyweights. Frank McCourt and Clive James arrived on the scene. (Whatever about the apparel proclaiming the man it doesn’t appear to reveal anything of his background; the man from a rain-sodden Limerick sported an open, short-sleeved, shirt while the affable Aussie wore a buttoned up leather jacket).

After their departure I continued with my pitch and I could see that he was weakening and we finished up shaking hands on the partnership. His parting shot, in true cute-hoor-Kerryman fashion, was “OK, you do the research on it and get back to me”.

When I heard about the hullabaloo about the proposed Poolbeg Incinerator, I set the wheels turning straight away by writing to the Department of the Environment to ask what, if any, restrictions and regulations governed the operation of a Mobile crematorium.

While I was waiting for a reply I made some enquiries about the necessary equipment needed for the project, hereinafter referred to as the MC.

I found out that in the USA Patent 6729247 has been taken out on aforementioned invention.The following jargon is used:

“The mobile crematorium comprises: a first combustion chamber, wheels, and a trailer hitch. The deceased remains are then heating in the first combustion chamber to a temperature of at least 1000.degree. thereby creating combustion gases and non-combustible materials. The combustion gases are allowed to exit the first combustion chamber and the non-combustible materials are removed and placed in a storage device such as an urn.

“The incinerator comprises a first combustion chamber with a first combustion source and a second combustion chamber with a second combustion source. Combustion of the deceased occurs in the combustion chamber. Gases created by the first combustion are further combusted in the second combustion chamber.”

It is possible to disguise the MC (mobile crematorium) as a boat, being towed, or as the designer puts it, “… the incinerator provides the visual perception of a ship… The flue may be utilized with additional chambers for further combustion or they may be aesthetic.

I think I have a better idea for this part of the world. Why not use a tractor to tow it and disguise it as a threshing mill? I’m sure P.J. Murrihy wouldn’t object to me writing a bit of a parody on “The Old Thrasing Mill” to use as a jingle.

Further technical tips are given about the construction of the MC: “Typical insulators comprising oxides of silicon, calcium, and magnesium with lower levels of aluminum and iron oxides are particularly suitable for the present invention.”

After weeks, having not received a reply, I wrote to the Department of Environment again. That’s several months ago and at the time of writing there’s not a word from Dick Roche. Since silence gives consent and there appears to be no restrictions or regulations on the construction and/or operation of a MC the way is clear, apart from getting permission from the inventor a striking a deal with a firm of bodybuilders.

I started kicking around a few ideas about a name; something catchy. Then John Cassidy, a Donegal Undertaker, pointed out to me that funeral directors and those in allied professions, who deal with the departed, do not use trade names, but family names to advertise their business. I told him that I wouldn’t mind having “Mattie Lennon” or even “M.J.Lennon” in foot-high letters on the side of an ice-cream van or the fleet of a Plaster-moulding company but I’d prefer not to have my moniker on something as sombre as a MC vehicle.

It doesn’t have to be your own name. Where are you from?” says he.

Wicklow” says I.

And what is the most common surname in Wicklow?” says he.

Byrne”, says I.

There you have it” says he “C.U.BYRNE.”

_____________________________________

first published on G21.net. Hyperlinks added on this blog by Paul O’Mahony

Jack Deacy’s Photograph: short story by Mary Lavery Carrig

June 03, 2009 By: Paul O'Mahony Category: connections, historical, participants, photographs, short story

JACK DEACY’S PHOTOGRAPH

I had entirely forgotten about the photograph.

Though in my defence, it had been all of ten years since the stranger had brought his soft blue eye to the camera lens. He had captured me forever on that early summer morning as I’d strolled into Listowel’s Square.

You have such an open face!’ he’d declared. ‘ May I take your photograph please?’ His voice was softly American.

He seemed oblivious to my sons, the youngest of whom watched from his pram and to which his older brothers were firmly attached. They peered from behind the pram handles, their mouths smeared in ice cream.

I’d come into our local market town, full of a private anticipation, to savour a little of the Writers’ Week atmosphere, to tuck it up and carefully carry it’s pleasures home with me again.

Thank you so much!’ he’d said and that moment froze in time.

What charm had I displayed? What ever had he seen in my expression?

Despite the shuffling of feet and the dizzy movements of the crowded Square, I watched closely as the American gentleman dissolved away towards the southwest corner of the Square. His white cotton jacket gleamed under the midday sun and I lost my stranger by the entrance to the Arms Hotel.

My attention must have switched then to the group of serious and bearded men who were huddled in the intensity of their talk by the bank’s railing. I’d moved closer to eavesdrop. Three tall laughing women, all in mini skirts, broke into the gathering and the banter and good natured party moved on slowly up the street.

My boys had finished their ice cream cones.

A decade passes and deepens the jagged edged crows feet that hover around my eyes.

I’m searching for a friend and am en route to the smoker’s enclave at the rear of the hotel. It overlooks the rushing river Feale and is a hub for many riveting chat up lines and some excess during yet another year of a Listowel Writers’ Week festival.

Passing through an annex room in order to reach the smoker’s deck, I am moving swiftly. A man looks up from his meal. We exchange a cursory glance.

Some moments later, he is standing by my side and the Feale is busy crooning in the background.

You’re the one!’ he whispers. ‘You’re the one I photographed!

As it does, memory finally comes in torrents. The emotional content spills back.
Gently and gradually, Jack Deacy, (that is Deacy with a ‘c’) guided the process of recollecting.

Yes he has put together a collection of faces photographed on his camera.

As one does at Writers Week, we indulge in one another’s company, in one another’s aspirations.

Stories are traded, backgrounds are filled in and e-mails are exchanged.

Jack plans to travel to Ireland once again for Writers Week. So, what of the recession? There is no credit crunch so heavy as to stop him in his tracks.

He is in the mood for celebration. He is in the mood for forging friendships and sure isn’t that the stuff of festivals anyway?

As for me, my children are bigger now and no longer hold the handles of a pram.

It is time here in North Kerry to watch each drama as it unfolds, to listen to inflections once again..…. to hear a catchy monologue, a rhyme or fresh philosophy…….. to observe ideas merge and become a promise.

I look forward to the layers of conversations where I will finally be released once more into a dappled, sweet apple world, wrapping myself in the revelry of words.

Mary Lavery Carrig JACK DEACY’S PHOTOGRAPH

[hyperlinks added by Paul O'Mahony]

Workshops: short fiction with Éilís Ní Dhuibhne

May 20, 2009 By: Paul O'Mahony Category: participants, photographs, short story, tutors, workshop

Some people are fortunate to be going to spend three days with Dubliner Éilís Ní Dhuibhne on short story writing…

Workshop Director

Workshop Director

Éilís Ní Dhuibhne is running the workshop on Short Fiction.

As the 4th in our series covering each of the workshops, we look at

and

  • provide a space for those booked on the workshop to say what you hope to get from it.

Anyone have a Éilís Ní Dhuibhne story you can share?

The blurb for the workshop sounds stretching. Promises …

the short story as a genre… outstanding short stories. Key elements of writing technique… stories brought by students will be critiqued in a positive and supportive atmosphere… writing exercises… to stimulate… imagination, identify wellsprings of creativity… hone literary craft…”

Éilís writes in both Irish and English.

If we’re really privileged, Éilís Ní Dhuibhne will accept an invitation to write a piece for us before the workshop


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