Waterford

THE SHINY RED HONDA…read first chapter

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19-01-2014 11;22;17

THE SHINY RED HONDA

Chapter one

I was thirteen tall and gangly when I first pulled on long trousers. What a relief that was; I was the longest streak of misery you were ever likely to see in the short ones. It was my last year at the National school in Newtown and the Master used every opportunity to drag me around the classroom shouting “just because you wear long trousers now O’ Brien, don’t think it makes you any smarter”. I wasn’t and it didn’t, but the Master was a law unto himself so I just kept my gob shut. There were discussions about what, if any, further education I was to get. Dungarvan was out I heard my father say; it was too far away and the fares were too expensive. That only left the ‘Tech in Portlaw – and that seemed to totter from one financial crisis to the next.
We were poor I guess; no running water, no toilets, to TV, no car…you name it we didn’t have it. But then, money wasn’t as important as it is nowadays. If you had enough to live on you were doing well. If you didn’t you wouldn’t starve because the countryside was abundant in most of the things needed to survive. Even the poorest cottage had half an acre of land attached, and enough spuds, cabbage and other vegetables could be grown to keep a family from the poorhouse. Hens provided eggs every day, a pig could be fattened and killed; and if you couldn’t afford turf or coal, well, there was plenty of wood scattered about… Continue reading →

LOVE POEM FROM BONMAHON

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LOVE POEM FROM BONMAHON

God in his heaven never bettered this;
Never hit perfection more square-on.
Rugged cliffs lip the strand,
Opening to fields behind,
The Atlantic, white-layered,
Sweeping into the bay,
Its hurry washed-out
By the tug of sand, gently rising,
Before it.

A tangle of marram crowns the dunes,
Tousled, like windswept hair;
Whilst, on the slopes nearby,
A line of white cottages
Vie for prominence with the old church

Yet, it is the call of the waves
That steals most of the aces;
Those riderless white horses
Sweeping relentlessly in,
With their whispering lisps;
‘I love you, please don’t go,
I love you please don’t go’

And I, watching the ebb-tide dragging them back,
Silently mouthing in their wake;
‘She loves me, she loves me not,
She loves me, she loves me not…’

THE SHINY RED HONDA – AMAZON REVIEW

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19-01-2014 11;22;17
THE SHINY RED HONDA review
A wonderful coming-of-age story set in the Ireland of the late fifties and early sixties,The Shiny Red Honda evokes images of a more innocent time, when life was lived at a more gentle pace and people were stoical in the face of hardship, taking the bad with the good as simply part of life’s cycle. Tom O’Brien’s writing is stark and vivid and straight to the point, but always tempered with a wry humour, never taking himself too seriously. We travel with him through his upbringing on a small-holding in County Waterford, sometimes hard, but mostly carefree, and then his emergence from fumbling adolescent to a young working man who played guitar in his spare time in the newly emerging pop/rock band scene of that era. Tom describes everything so beautifully that I found myself re-reading some pages, just for the sheer joy of it. This is one of the best autobiographical books I’ve read in ages, if not THE best, and I can’t wait to read more of Tom O’Brien’s work.
› Go to Amazon.com to see the review 5.0 out of 5 stars

WINTERTIME

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WINTERTIME
The Kilamanjaros never looked so bright
As the Comeraghs do, swaddled in white
Their new overcoats, bespoke overnight

MY SMASHWORDS INTERVIEW

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Smashwords Interview with Tom O’Brien

What inspires you to get out of bed each day?
Today just might be the day the postman doesn’t ring twice! In other words, no rejections today. (THE POSTMAN ALWAYS RINGS TWICE was Jame’s Cain’s best seller and its title was inspired by the fact that his postman always rang twice if he was delivering a rejected manuscript!)
When you’re not writing, how do you spend your time?
Reading mostly. To be a good writer you have to be an even better reader. Other writers fascinate me; how they put a book or play together;what it is about their work that makes it great; what I can learn from them. I am often in awe of how good some writers are.
How do you discover the ebooks you read?
I am an avid reader of reviews, be they in newspapers or online. They don’t necessarily have to be good reviews, just interesting. With certain writers I don’t even bother with the reviews; when a new book comes out I just know I will like it.
Do you remember the first story you ever wrote?
Yes, I do. It was a story about a security guard planning a robbery at a holiday camp ( I worked as a security guard at Pontin’s holiday Camp in Bracklesham Bay in Sussex at the time) and it was terrible. Complete rubbish! Needless to say it never saw the light of day.
 

Continue reading →

REVIEW

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Reviewed in the IRISH WORLD yesterday.

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view all my published books @ http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

 

THE HERMIT LACKENDARA and THE COMERAGHS.

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LACKENDARA by Tom O’Brien

Ah Lackendara

You heard the voices too

At Passchendaele where you

Cowered as the big guns

Bombarded your world to silence

Blasted your thoughts to kingdom come

And left you forlorn

On that ragged outcrop

In the foothills of the Comeraghs

The fox and the curlew your only companions

The gurgling Mahon Falls

All there was to quench your thirst.

For thirty years you trod those hills

Taking little notice

Of ordinary life around you going on

Your presence on the mountain a constant reminder

Of mans’ inhumanity to man.

Jim Fitzgerald, ‘Lackendara’, with an unknown female.

Jim Fitzgerald, known as ‘Lackendara’, lived halfway up the Comeragh Mountains for over forty years. His home was a cave of sorts, with a roof comprised of bits of driftwood, stones and soil, and an entrance concealed by strips of hanging grain bags. A veteran of WW1, where he was said to have suffered shell-shock, he spent the remainder of his life in isolation in this rugged and unforgiving terrain in the foothills of the Comeraghs. He was known as a hermit, though he did venture down to the nearby village of Kilmacthomas every few weeks to collect and spend his pension on some essential groceries etc, but he never dwelt longer than was necessary, happy, it seems,  to be back in the isolation of his Comeragh home, where sheep, foxes, and other wild animals were his only companions.

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Jim Fitzgerald with Marcela Kirwan in 1955

The only time I ever saw him was in 1958, when a group of us were on a day’s trekking from the Technical College in Portlaw. We had cycled the 10 miles from the college to Mahon Falls, an amazing spot where the river mahon gurgled and rushed down  the craggy rocks, before forming the river proper. We had spent most of the day climbing the mountain to get to Coumshingaun, a silent, eerie lake which  was near the top, and to investigate Crotty’s Eye, a needle-like projection nearby, where the highwayman, Crotty, watched weary travellers negotiate a treacherous pass through the foothills, before way-laying them and robbing them of their money and valuables. Crotty was eventually hanged for his crimes in Waterford City.

On our way back down we saw Lackendara in the distance, heading for his ‘home’ which was nearby. He didn’t see us because there was a large boulder between us and he was pre-occupied with a fox, which had been following him. He stopped and gave it some food from a bag he was carrying, before patting it on the head and disappearing inside his cave. The fox finished eating then trotted in to the cave after him!

Lackendara died the following year, aged 68.

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CROMWELL’S TOUR OF IRELAND

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‘Cromwell’ started off as a joke. We were touring Ireland a couple of years ago with another of my plays ‘On Raglan Road’, and had just played in Dingle, Co. Kerry, where I had purchased a new biography of Oliver Cromwell’s time in Ireland. When somebody asked what my next play was going to be I replied ‘Cromwell The Musical’. Everybody laughed, including myself, but over the next few months there were several (joking) questions about ‘how is the musical coming on’, and I thought ‘ maybe I will surprise them all’. I did surprise them – myself included – by actually writing – and finishing – it!

Cromwell's Tour of Ireland - Courtyard Theatre Poster

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Hell or to Connaught: that’s where Oliver Cromwell plans to send all Irish Catholics.

(The province of Connaught being perceived as little more than a collection of bogs and rocks, and of little use to English land-grabbers)

The year is 1649 and Oliver Cromwell is on the rampage in Ireland. His mission is to quell the Irish Catholic rebellion, with its growing support for English Royalists. Failure could mean a new Civil War in England. Not that he countenances failure; he has seen a vision – he truly believes he has God on his side.

Ireland’s only hope is Owen Roe O’Neill and his Ulster Army. O’Neill is a veteran of the Spanish Wars and is recognized as Ireland’s greatest soldier. Cromwell plans to ensure he doesn’t leave Ulster.

We see his journey through Ireland through his own eyes, those of his Puritan soldiers, and of two girls, Emir and Eithne, who, having been captured at the battle of Drogheda, are now being forced to work in the kitchens before being shipped off as slaves to the West Indies.

Emir is hiding a big secret; she is a spy for Owen Roe O’Neill’s Ulster army, She plans to poison Cromwell, little knowing that Cromwell’s own agents have a similar plan for O’Neill.

When Eithne is raped by one of the Puritan soldiers, both plan to escape and join the defenders at Limerick, where O’Neill’s Ulster army is making a last desperate stand.

PERFORMED IN MODERN DRESS – WITH A SPRINKLING OF MUSIC!

CONFESSIONS OF AN ALTAR BOY

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EXTRACT FROM MY BOOK ‘THE SHINY RED HONDA’:

Religion was taken seriously in those days. Every season brought is own festivities and duties.  March, for example, usually signified the beginning of Lent and weeks of fasting and devotion.  Each of us owned our own prayer books and rosary beads, mother’s missal was stuffed to bursting with relics and Holy pictures.  Blessed Martin himself had never been kissed as many times as had that faded picture of him she carried around with her. She had great faith in his powers as a healer. Whenever one of us was sick she kissed his picture and placed it on the afflicted part of our body.  Holy water, Lourdes water, water from the healing well in Mothel lurked in every corner of the house and was dished out like tonic.  As soon as sickness appeared she reached for one of her bottles and administered three sips to us.  Never mind that it tasted like bog water, it still had to be swallowed.

            The coming of Lent heralded a change of attitude in the lives of almost everyone in the community. From the priests whose sermons became more vociferous to the women who beat a path to the altar daily now, their eyes downcast, their heads shrouded in black veils. Continue reading →

LETTERS TO MOTHER AND OTHER DEAD RELATIVES

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This is a collection of letters to various dead relatives including my mother, father, grand-uncle Mikey, aunt Margaret. Subjects include wills, WW1, Illigitimacy, Patrick Kavanagh, Jack Joyle, famine, sowing potatoes, old cemeteries, the magic road, Donncha Ruadh, Bobby Sands, IRA, the Easter Rising, My aunt Margaret, etc etc etc.

 

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