Listowel Writers' Week Fringe

Quiz question number 5: the man with the sax…

[Question 5 in a series of 10: grand prize to the person who gets most right.]

His name please?

The first in a new quiz series: I’ll think up a suitable prize, or we could offer an opportunity to a sponsor…

Let’s say there will be 10 photographs: the winner is the person who comments in most correct answers.

About to be photographed after being presented with his prize.

After the flurry of challenging comments, comparing Listowel Writers’ Week with West Cork Literary Festival (WCLF), isn’t it time for some measuring?

I’ve gone through both programmes and offer this quantitive comparison – for what it’s worth. I suspect it’s meaning is extremely limited: I haven’t yet found a way to measure atmosphere except by total immersion.

(Numbers in brackets relate to WCLF)

Length of Festival: 4 days & about 2 hours (6 days)

No. of readings: 20 (28)

Seminars/Talks: 0 (10)

Public interviews: 2 (4)

Number of Workshops: 15 (14 [3 for children])

Children’s Programme of Events: 11 (6)

Open Mic poetry, music & song: 4 (5)

Open Mic song only : 1 (0)

Art Exhibitions: 7 (1)

Films: 5 (0)

Lunchtime theatre: 3 (o)

Evening theatre: 4 (0)

Book launches: 5 (1)

Writing Competitions: 11+ (3)

Storytelling competition: 1 (0)

Youth Poetry Slam: 1 (0)

Photographic exhibition: 1 (0)

Radio broadcasts: 1 (o)

Tours: 3 (2)

Prose: 60% (58%)

Poetry: 40% (42%)

Rory Gallagher International Tribute Festival (28-31 May)

25th Goldsmith International Literary Festival

28 May 2009 – 31 May 2009

Carlsberg Cat Laughs Comedy Festival

28 May 2009 – 01 Jun 2009

Glen of Aherlow Walking Festival

29 May 2009 – 01 Jun 2009

DUMFRIES & GALLOWAY ARTS FESTIVAL (22-30 May)

PERTH FESTIVAL OF THE ARTS
21 – 31 May 2009

SWALEDALE FESTIVAL
23 May – 6 June 2009

THE GUARDIAN HAY FESTIVAL
21 – 31 May 2009

WORDFRINGE
1 – 31 May 2009

We should be careful to get out of an experience all the wisdom that is in
it — not like the cat that sits on a hot stove lid. She will never sit
down on a hot lid again — and that is well; but also she will never sit
down on a cold one anymore.

*** Mark Twain (1835 – 1910) American Author ***

For more information on this quotation and the author:
http://www.gurteen.com/gurteen/gurteen.nsf/id/X0013E7D2/

Enda Kenny opens exhibition, “The Orbit of Salt Water” oil paintings by Michael Flaherty at the Lartigue Museum.

Enda Kenny at The Lartigue

- on Thursday 28 May 2009 @ 1200

We bloggers wanted to pick up, and publicise, what went on around the programme during Listowel Writers’ Week.

Jeremy Gould was particularly keen on this. His enthusiasm rubbed off on me.

It was an accident that caused me to meet people fundraising for Kerry Cancer Support Group. I got a slow puncture, and had to inflate a tyre.

I couldn’t help noticing a big coach. Beautifully clean with a small group gathered in front of it.

They welcomed me over. Spared no effort to tell me about the work they do:

They collect people from Kerry who need to go to Cork for cancer treatment. The bus is specially kitted out so that it’s comfortable. Has toilet & fridge on board.

But they’re not funded by the HSE, the health service.

They have to raise the money themselves. HSE centralise cancer services in Cork. Who pays for transporting people over there for treatment?

I thought that sort of stuff was paid by the taxpayer, via HSE. I was shocked.

I promised to publicise this. Perhaps this blog can do some little good.

Historic records will say Michael Lynch introduced Gabriel Byrne who opened Listowel Writers’ Week 2009.

But those of us who were there know another story…

Before 745 pm, the room was jammers. People were turned away at the door. It was Sean Lyons from Kerry, winner @Strokestown International Poetry Festival 2009 of

The Percy French Prize for witty – possibly topical – verse

who was first to speak. The vital, warm-up act, stilling the crowd.

And with what did Sean Lyons, member of Listowel Writers’ Week (organising) Committee strive to quell the cacophony of conversation in Listowel Arms Hotel ballroom?

A gong? A shout? Tinkling of a glass?

No.

A poem… no ordinary poem… his winning poem from 2009 Strokestown Poetry Festival. [Even that didn't shut the crowd up.]

Thank you Sean. We are privileged to publish it here, in all its glory…

A middle aged man goes shopping for trousers

I went shopping for trousers the other day.
Though I’m not getting any taller
The waist band on the present slacks
Is definitely getting smaller.
I don’t like shopping as a rule
I find shop assistants snotty
And I feel a tad embarrassed
When they measure my once taut botty.
‘Does Sir dress to the left or right?’
One asked me like a riddle.
When you get to my age, son, I said
‘You leave it in the middle.’
‘Upstairs, sir,’ he remarked,
‘Is for the more ample figure.’
And as I climbed the cursed steps,
I swear I heard him snigger.
I made a super human effort
To hold my beer belly gut in
But even I could not deny
The pressure on the upper button.
The salesman here was another one,
With muscles trim and hard
I cursed again the Mayo cuisine,
The black pudding fried in lard.
I cursed as well the drinking days
When with other knaves and fools,
Instead of running around racing tracks

We vegetated on high stools.
We drank our pints and placed our bets on the races on the telly
Totally oblivious to the time bombs
I was placing in my belly.
Time bombs yes, you heard me right
That clung to my hips like rubber
And reappeared in middle age
As great big blobs of blubber.
By now my face was turning puce
From holding in my breath
When the salesman produced his inch tape
And gave my pride the kiss of death.
‘A forty two sir, I suppose,
Could do you at a pinch.’
With bravery above the call,
I sucked in another inch
But the inch tape doesn’t lie.
It’s much more honest than me
The salesman did a final check,
‘We’ll say a forty three.’
‘A forty three it is,’ says he,
I didn’t say a meg.
He muttered then as he rubbed his chin,
‘We’ll take six inches off the leg.’
The trousers bought, the next dread thought,
Was more than I could bear.
Through gritted teeth, I asked me man:
‘Where’s the underwear?’
That grin again, it crossed his chin,
With the tiniest of flickers.
‘Would Sir prefer the traditional style,
Or this season’s thongs and knickers?’
‘I’ll try the thongs,’ says I, ‘bedad.’
His face paled with the shock.
He handed me a piesheen of silk,
Thin as the second hand of a clock.
”What’s that?’ I cried as I looked down,
At the sliver in his hand.
‘It gives support in work and sport,
For today’s more active man.’
‘Where I come from, young man I said,
We ate butter and drink milk.
And our smalls are made of cotton blend,
Not lace or puncy silk.
And this is more of it as well,
Like miles and pounds and punts
If the Lisbon Treaty’s ever passed,
They’ll ban string vests and Y fronts.
And one thing more,’ I said,
My voice was getting louder.
‘You can keep your under arm deodorant,
I’ll stick with talcum powder.
It served me well in courting days,
Like hair spray and nylon ankle stockings
And I don’t have to take your guff
Or your not so gentle mockings.
So, take your trousers, sir,’ I said,
‘And your fancy fol der dols,
No garment from this shop,
Will ever chafe my walls.’
And with that, I turned my back,
And went down the stairs again,
My heart was light, I was right
Because inside I know I’m thin
But self delusion soon gave way
I realised with dread
I’d gone straight from baby fat
To bloody middle age spread.
The lads were right, their inch tapes true,
No lies, no tittle tattle.
As I left the store, I knew for sure.
The bulge had won the battle.