Listowel Writers' Week Fringe

Blogging Listowel's Literary Scene
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Who’s this performer @ Listowel Writers’ Week 2009?

July 12, 2009 By: Paul O'Mahony Category: competition, events, starting up

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?


Just to correct a possible misunderstanding…

June 09, 2009 By: Paul O'Mahony Category: blogs, connections, events, historical, organisers, participants, photographs, poem, poetry

This may not be technically a great photograph, but to catch these two rehearsing for the next series of “Strictly Come Dancing” was fabulous…

Audrey Dunphy & Rowley George…

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I was privileged to be there, sitting on the floor with Sony Cyber-shot 8.1 mega pixels.

In background, John Sheehan, one of the Dubliners, and a man whose name I don’t know. Unseen by the camera, is a large group of session ‘attendees’ and performers. It was a very public performance – what you could call a miracle of a session.

I’ll post more photos from it later today.

As Billy Keane said, this is “History”. There was no dancing coach. They just seemed to click.

Psychiatrist with a flute in his pocket…

May 28, 2009 By: Paul O'Mahony Category: events

He plays… the music flows…

Notes from Sunday Miscellany at St. John’s Theatre

May 28, 2009 By: Patrick Stack Category: events, participants, photographs, workshop

I begin to worry that I’ve left it too late when I see the long queue snake out around the old Protestant Church that is now St. John’s Theatre. I relax in the bright sunshine and have an impromptu conversation with a novelist called Ann(e) whose second name escapes me, and a nice Scottish gentleman who tells us that it’s his first time in Listowel. His wife, on the other hand, has been coming for four years and is at a workshop elsewhere in town.

Once inside the old building, I manage to get a seat near enough to the back where I feel comfortable. There is confusion with a woman two seats down keeping seats for friends who have already arrived and are seated at the far end of the row!

The audience hushes and the guitarist (Redmond O’Toole) and violinist (Elizabeth Cooney) play us in with some beautiful classical music. The guitarist is holding his instrument like a cello – only later do I notice that it has a black plastic spike just like a cello, sticking out the base to hold it steady on the floor between his knees. Beside them on stage are a box player and an accordionist, father and son we are told at the end Seamus and [didn't catch the name] Begley.

A la mujer a mi lado no le gusta que tecleo durante la m̼sica y me lo ha dicho, Рque le distrae Рlo que es una mentira: el ruido no es del tecleo sino de los botones de mi chaqueta que dan contra el laptop. I could have done without that as it makes me self-conscious.

Cyril Kelly begins with a journey into the imagination sparking off memories many and varied in the massed audience with an evocative visit to his primary school days at the feet of the master himself, Brian MacMahon.

Joseph O’Neill, novelist reads two of his poems. The first entitled The Eleventh Year of Marriage, wanders in and out of what is and isn’t leaving my mind’s eye cross-eyed and confused – perhaps that is the intention. The second is about golfing with his father in Ballybunion where he escaped to from the prison of Aughanish where he worked, beginning and ending with bats.

The recording of Joseph Murphy is interrupted by a hammering sound coming from outside the old walls at the back. The builders are making their presence felt. The audience bursts into laughter and is transformed for a moment into thousands of mud-flatted geese on the Shannon.

One Christine Dwyer-Hickey reads a fond piece on driving from Inchicore to Listowel with Michael Hartnett – “a virtuous man”.

John Montague recounts his argument with Ted Hughes Poet Laureate in the Listowel Arms.

Gabriel Byrne remembers going to the cinema to see his first ever picture with his grandmother.

Oh what gorgeous flights into memory these touchstones from the past, these literary giants long gone to the summer lands, bring.


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