tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10477464896702529822024-03-28T23:27:58.072-04:00The BigLooLaaDispatches from a place 'entre Lajeunesse et la sagesse'Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.comBlogger141125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-52042992423019950672024-03-20T18:24:00.002-04:002024-03-21T10:57:13.197-04:00Courage<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">In 1980, abortion was a major topic in Ireland. The public debate was not about legalizing it, or banning it, but on whether the existing ban should be reinforced in the constitution to the point where there would never be a possibility of allowing it, no matter what it meant for the woman. The rights of women were a non-issue in that country run by old men.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I was a teenager then, attending a Dublin school for boys run by the Christian Brothers, and the ethos of the Catholic Church ran deep in me. I was a fervent anti-abortionist, as were the other thirty or so boys in my class. Our German teacher was a woman from the west of Ireland, probably in her late twenties, and one morning she brought a newspaper into the class with an article about abortion and proceeded to debate us. For the next hour she held her ground against us, advocating for a woman's right to choose in the face of thirty holier-than-thou little pricks. When we couldn't win the argument through logic we resorted to shouting her down, but though she had tears in her eyes she remained calm, explaining why we were wrong. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">In the Ireland of the 1980s her views would have been considered outrageous, and wholly unacceptable for a teacher. If any of us had told the school principal Brother Kenny about this debate in our class, not only would she have been fired instantly but she would never have been allowed to teach anywhere in Ireland again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The thirty of us acted like bigoted fools that day, but at least I can say that none of us reported her. Now, more than forty years later, I know very well how wrong I was, and that she was completely right. Her courage in debating us that morning was remarkable. I've tried many times to find her to say exactly this and to apologise to her, but I've never been able to locate her.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I just hope she was around to see how Ireland changed with the repeal of the 8th amendment to the constitution in 2018. In the long run she won the argument, convincingly and courageously.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGP5jDPPRMnavbalvFQWgcorAGoMSldwniuZZ7wol6pIHCMbGPhhNmZEZTwM3w74rgaNJajC2Iuly9bS__SUv7h6euYi2srDOhn-HaGm3V9sidkCGaUfTqVDou6fosa7499QI6Cp33Mbq6827bLsKRyynRE0cUb14G5pSi44uDXlUWIBHu70CKKYticgQ/s742/ColaisteAerialView.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="590" data-original-width="742" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGP5jDPPRMnavbalvFQWgcorAGoMSldwniuZZ7wol6pIHCMbGPhhNmZEZTwM3w74rgaNJajC2Iuly9bS__SUv7h6euYi2srDOhn-HaGm3V9sidkCGaUfTqVDou6fosa7499QI6Cp33Mbq6827bLsKRyynRE0cUb14G5pSi44uDXlUWIBHu70CKKYticgQ/w400-h318/ColaisteAerialView.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Coláiste Caoímhín CBS on Parnell Road in Dublin, the Jewish <br />cemetery on Aughavanagh Road in the upper left background. <br />(Photo source unknown). The <a href="https://www.crumlinwalkinstownhistory.ie/building/colaiste-caoimhin/">school was demolished</a> in 1995.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-84511649298458381832024-02-07T15:19:00.003-05:002024-02-14T14:29:46.892-05:002023 Reading list<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">This should have been my first post of 2023, but here, belatedly, is a list of the books I read in 2023:</span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Fiction</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Companion Piece by Ali Smith</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Daydreams of Angels by Heather O’Neill</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Dinosaurs by Lydia Millet</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Foster by Claire Keegan</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Intimacies by Katie Kitamura</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Look at me by Jennifer Egan</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Nirliit by Juliana Léveillé-Trudel (<i>en Français</i>)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Old Babes in the Wood by Margaret Atwood</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Tenth of December by George Saunders</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The Hour after Happy Hour by Mary O’Donoghue</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The Singularities by John Banville</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The Writer’s Torch ed. by Boumans, et al</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">This Other Eden by Paul Harding</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span>Tiohtiá:ke by Michel Jean </span>(<i>en Français</i>)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Trespasses by Louise Kennedy</span><br /><br /></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Poetry</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Ariel – The Restored Edition by Syliva Plath</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">If Some God Shakes Your House by Jennifer Franklin</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Refusing Heaven by Jack Gilbert</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Non-fiction</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jenette McCurdy</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Negative Space by Cristín Leach</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The Cancer Journals by Audre Lorde</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">It's hard to pick a favourite from this list, but I particularly loved the novels by Paul Harding and Claire Keegan and their completely opposite approaches: the former for the brilliance of his prose in capturing the immediate experience of his characters, and the latter for the deceptive simplicity of her narration and the way it creeps up on you. The non-fiction work by Cristín Leach is wonderfully insightful on the intersection between writing lives and personal lives and I added many quotes from it to my notebook.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">See also:</span></p><p><a href="https://bigloolaa.blogspot.com/2023/03/reading-list.html"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">September 2021 - December 2022 reading list</span></a></p><p><a href="https://bigloolaa.blogspot.com/2021/08/reading-not-blogging.html"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">January 2020 - August 2021 reading list</span></a></p><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-39372098221534295922024-01-20T14:38:00.016-05:002024-02-07T14:50:48.943-05:00Published!<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">It doesn't mean much in the world of literature, but it means a lot to me: two of my pieces, <a href="https://www.skyislandjournal.com/issues#/issue-27-winter-2024/">Memento Mori and Homing</a>, have been published in the online magazine <a href="https://www.skyislandjournal.com/">Sky Island Journal</a>. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifAuPAXFndiqSQcc4qkfCrWyPChgVTfKob7fvUQ57f2nRwwXazs_EzbeQ20awpGrUFOjPpvw0qN0k8V6gQppHJun78IMSd-VENcYbKHggngt8Q2WQgu-7ELhX5-FKKbzXCM_cwglrNUJP8qQsHT8I5UdJDOX-vjp3_oc9flC2mzPb36JueAcHcENS5h7o/s3024/Sky%20Island%20Journal_Issue%2027%20COVER.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifAuPAXFndiqSQcc4qkfCrWyPChgVTfKob7fvUQ57f2nRwwXazs_EzbeQ20awpGrUFOjPpvw0qN0k8V6gQppHJun78IMSd-VENcYbKHggngt8Q2WQgu-7ELhX5-FKKbzXCM_cwglrNUJP8qQsHT8I5UdJDOX-vjp3_oc9flC2mzPb36JueAcHcENS5h7o/w400-h400/Sky%20Island%20Journal_Issue%2027%20COVER.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I've been writing fiction and poetry for two and a half years now, and this is motivation for me to keep on writing and to submit more of my pieces for publication. It feels good.</span></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-52879923627244694322023-11-24T09:33:00.000-05:002023-11-24T09:42:08.156-05:00Lake Trousers, innit?<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Our chalet is in the township of Saint-Étienne-de-Bolton, close to the river Missisquoi, on the shores of Lake Trousers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Lake Trousers!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4Rgu39DUh-T6L-TPoKRysmCBDA644wGGIZ0Zmxn4plNkaaZX0DIA5IYbv2feVG5IY-Q-XN_AOVzM-r1SxJ9GD1sNEKvcampswkqTE0gPNEmw2mQnGmBl_81PI7IScqyArPBJYlCOikdyaRC-3rSKVasSRRfTSQCHQ5tNa-7uQaXhGZpBRQaxV3phM3I/s1770/20220828_162403.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="995" data-original-width="1770" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4Rgu39DUh-T6L-TPoKRysmCBDA644wGGIZ0Zmxn4plNkaaZX0DIA5IYbv2feVG5IY-Q-XN_AOVzM-r1SxJ9GD1sNEKvcampswkqTE0gPNEmw2mQnGmBl_81PI7IScqyArPBJYlCOikdyaRC-3rSKVasSRRfTSQCHQ5tNa-7uQaXhGZpBRQaxV3phM3I/w400-h225/20220828_162403.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I imagine how it was named by an intrepid English explorer and his lackey.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Explorer:</b> <i>I've discovered and named so many majestic mountains, rivers, and inland seas, I would like to grant you the privilege of naming this delightful little lake.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Lackey:</b> <i>Me, m'Lord?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Explorer:</b> <i>You, sirrah! Behold this vista. What does it bring to mind?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Lackey:</b> <i>Well, I dunno really. Looks a bit like a pair of trousers, innit.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Explorer:</b> <i>A pair of trousers?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Lackey:</b> <i>Yeh. I'll call it Lake Trousers then.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Explorer</b>: <i>Are you quite sure, my good man? It doesn't bring to mind the rich bounties of the green and golden summer of this new world? The sweeping wings of a Loon as it thrills through the clear water in pursuit of its prey? Or perhaps, with a little more imagination, the open jaws of a ravenous wolf racing across the windswept ice in the frozen depths of winter?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Lackey:</b> <i>No</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Explorer:</b> (sighing) <i>Alright so, Lake Trousers it shall be. Let posterity forgive me.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Lackey:</b> <i>Yay!</i></span></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-77532619257051872462023-11-24T09:03:00.001-05:002023-12-18T12:24:02.685-05:00Dehors Novembre<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Last Friday Martine and I went to see the show <a href="http://www.pourquoiproductions.com/dehorsnovembre.html">Dehors Novembre</a> about the creation of the celebrated album by Les Colocs (almost twenty-five years ago now) and the too brief life and times of Dédé Fortin (pronounced DayDay and not DeeDee - Martine is a bit frustrated at having to correct my prononciation all the time, and I'm a bit frustrated that she has to).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The show was moving and heart-warming. I had joked beforehand that I'd be the only anglophone in the audience and, sure enough, the couple in the seats beside us were stunned to hear my accented French. (Un anglo icitte? Je ne le crois pas!)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Pretty well everyone in Québec knows the song 'Tassez-vous de d'là' and indeed it was a centre-piece of the show, first just spoken to emphasise the lyrics, and then sung in a boisterous finale. But for me the highlight of the evening was the song 'Le Repondeur' - the lyrics are so poetic, and the actor Hubert Proulx playing the role of Dédé was close to tears as he softly sang them.</span></p><p></p><blockquote><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">J'y ai jamais dit "je t'aime" tout court<br />J'rajoute toujours quelque chose après<br />C'comme ça qu'on voit si on est en amour<br />"Je t'aime beaucoup", ça fait moins vrai</span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Peut-être qu'y neige, peut-être qu'y pleut<br />L'hiver est même pas sûr de lui<br />Yé faite comme moé, yé aussi peureux<br />Dans l'fond, l'hiver, c'est mon ami</span></i></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">At the end we bought the T-shirts, featuring another line from 'Le Repondeur'.</span></p><blockquote><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">La vie, c'est court, mais c'est long des p'tits boutes</span></i></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">According to an anecdote told on the night, Vander got that line from a homeless man on St. Laurent boulevard, and whenever Dédé passed the man afterwards he'd always give him twenty bucks for the 'droit d'auteur'.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The original album was written and recorded in a chalet in Saint-Étienne-de-Bolton, the municipality where our own chalet is located. We'll probably try to find the place in the coming months.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Facebook link to <a href="https://fb.watch/ownEJFZgrt/">Dehors November: au cours de la création de l'album mythique des Colocs</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-6760701384005441532023-10-16T09:52:00.001-04:002023-10-16T09:52:32.639-04:00What a coincidence?<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I'd never heard of the poet Jack Gilbert until he came up for study in a writing class a few weeks ago. He was never particularly well known, published only six or seven collections in his lifetime, and died in 2012. But I was struck by the works we discussed, their earthiness and in-your-face honesty, the courage of the writer.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Then, in a mysterious coincidence, one of his poems was released this month in a moving video on a channel I follow.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Well, of course there's no mystery here, I simply wouldn't have noticed the video before the class.</span></p>
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7R0zvidlfDs?si=NhaJwZA0uDM3-pXC" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The Adrian Brinkerhoff Foundation releases many wonderful videos on its channel (another example: the Doireann Ní Ghríofa poem I <a href="https://bigloolaa.blogspot.com/2021/11/the-brightening-by-doireann-ni-ghriofa.html">wrote about before</a>) but there are very few subscribers. This venture must be making a big loss given the obvious high cost of the productions. I wonder what's behind it?</span></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-18355815388526401492023-09-08T09:45:00.001-04:002023-11-24T09:42:51.012-05:00Talk to the hand<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'Is that an Android or an iPhone?'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">He was scruffy, short and gap-toothed, walking toward me across the pedestrian crossing, ignoring the forbidding red hand above me. I was waiting to cross, idly looking at my phone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'Doesn't matter anyway,' he continued without waiting for a reply. 'They're all the same.' He stopped in front of me, standing on the road as the traffic roared past less than a meter behind him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'Right,' I managed to say, displaying all the fluency I'd developed in two years of creative writing classes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'What really matters is the number,' he said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'Oh?'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'Do you know how to use your camera,' he asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'Eh…'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'Come on, are you telling me you don't know how to use your camera?'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'Oh, sure I do, yes.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'Well take a photo of this.'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">He held up his phone. There was a scrap of paper taped to its back with a phone number on it, written in black marker in a shaky hand. 'This is the number you want,' he said with a note of pride.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I felt many pairs of eyes on my back, the crowd of pedestrians behind me waiting for my response. I hesitated. The red hand became a white man and we all spilled on to the road in a rush to cross, flowing around the man as a stream does around a rock, overwhelming it. I heard him sigh loudly then saw him no more.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I should have taken his number. </span></p><br /><p></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-67885494952597922302023-07-31T22:12:00.006-04:002023-08-08T10:22:26.432-04:00RIP Sinéad<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I wasn't surprised to hear of Sinéad O'Connor's death - she'd seemed so fragile in recent years - but I was shocked. Almost a week later I still have a feeling of great loss.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">For many Irish people of her generation, my generation, she wasn't just a brilliant songwriter and singer. She was one of the first to speak and sing the truth about our country: the abusive Catholic chuch and the patriarchy it enabled, the abandonment of children, the lamentable state of mental health services. She sang from anger and hurt, and out of illness, but she sang so that things might change, and she was one of the catalysts behind the wave of changes for the better that have swept across Ireland these past twenty years.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">And how she sang. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The hymn 'Make me a channel of your peace' is known by every Catholic raised in Ireland. But when Sinéad sang it, the prayer of St. Francis, it was like hearing it for the first time. You realised that you'd been saying these lines without thinking about them, whereas she meant every single word. And she wanted us to mean them too.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">She sang it on the Late Late Show after having a makeover for charity (in support of refugees from the former Yugoslavia). It was like being visited by an angel.</span></p>
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hBoRf2ik1ec" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I never had a conversation with her, though I met her a few times. Outside Dún Laoghaire music school, in the passport line at Dublin airport, and most memorably at a birthday party for one of my sons in the Lambert Puppet Theatre.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I've been playing her music in the kitchen these past days and my sons all light up when they hear 'No Man's Woman', a song we used to listen to on the school run. It's how I'd like to remember her: smart and sassy, the woman who was usually right and always right on, and who made a real difference.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Codladh sámh Sinéad.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qD_Z3td4nRU" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">P.S. <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/music/2023/07/27/una-mullally-sinead-oconnor-rejected-the-easy-life-for-one-of-truth-telling/">This tribute to Sinéad</a> in The Irish Times by Úna Mullally is perfect. And Fintan O'Toole nails it <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/opinion/2023/08/01/fintan-otoole-sinead-oconnors-openness-was-curse-for-her-but-blessing-for-rest-of-us/">when he writes</a> that her honesty was 'a curse for her but a blessing for us'.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">P.P.S. I think Sinéad would have appreciated the candour of this article by Hannah Jane Parkinson in The Guardian: Sinéad O’Connor <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2023/aug/08/sinead-o-connor-mental-illness-mainstream-debate">showed mental illness as it truly is</a>.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-19150439157576552552023-06-19T22:31:00.003-04:002023-06-19T22:35:07.259-04:00The Red Maple at 1<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">A few weeks after we bought the chalet Martine won a red maple sapling in a 10K run in Magog. We planted it carefully in a sunlit clearing in the front of the chalet, watered it, put stones and a protective cage around it, and spent the rest of 2022 watching it do absolutely nothing. The snow covered it, and by the time winter finally departed, I thought it was dead. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">But now, suddenly, leaves!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuE9uCxuTTVF0vUqGb2icAXbXjJEX6m-D_7NDDxzQwcN6jVkWzSovYKluEqyzIT035CcW8QFLSW6RGZsvDckkCZz2U01N0mbn0XcYAmT3RPp4QF3_DaDFukcfimDviyh03SNCu1rSyCXF8B1G_L9sACRtD4gWyPN2g9JSUIaJAZ36Ef4fKCsEabt37vgA/s3375/RedMapleAt1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3375" data-original-width="2992" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuE9uCxuTTVF0vUqGb2icAXbXjJEX6m-D_7NDDxzQwcN6jVkWzSovYKluEqyzIT035CcW8QFLSW6RGZsvDckkCZz2U01N0mbn0XcYAmT3RPp4QF3_DaDFukcfimDviyh03SNCu1rSyCXF8B1G_L9sACRtD4gWyPN2g9JSUIaJAZ36Ef4fKCsEabt37vgA/w355-h400/RedMapleAt1.jpg" width="355" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">We've had a wonderful first year in Saint-Étienne-de-Bolton and our red maple sapling has made it to its first birthday.</span></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-19862667091962911852023-06-18T19:32:00.001-04:002023-07-11T08:55:56.619-04:00My French is pretty good, but...<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Sometimes the order of words in French just wrecks my head. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">After chatting about it with Martine I now understand why it's 'ne me le' and not 'ne le me', but getting this right at conversation speed is still beyond me. Harder even than the subjunctive case!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPgSIl8XUup2OYOH_cOD8dtJjrVI7WG1IS4VzETFftNL9XxQZ32VmMmU5VPuMpCr4eSohAVn3Z2yDa3VoK8J6XcYkoQhIfxiMrviKf605mDmXObFvzTZa4zAWvSbXPAD_IDjKbTVxTw7sF3F5oSv4khwRtwLhQkPvAw_fxQoDcCwQPxplK9pnjdn19/s933/NeMeLe.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="933" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPgSIl8XUup2OYOH_cOD8dtJjrVI7WG1IS4VzETFftNL9XxQZ32VmMmU5VPuMpCr4eSohAVn3Z2yDa3VoK8J6XcYkoQhIfxiMrviKf605mDmXObFvzTZa4zAWvSbXPAD_IDjKbTVxTw7sF3F5oSv4khwRtwLhQkPvAw_fxQoDcCwQPxplK9pnjdn19/s320/NeMeLe.png" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /> Learning a language is a project for life.</span><p></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-1328030436708665472023-05-11T20:44:00.026-04:002023-07-31T22:20:56.565-04:00The man at Esposito<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Grey-bearded and smiling, he was also awkward and gangly, as though his limbs had been transplanted from a taller donor. He was buying two cans of something, soup perhaps, and he asked the cashier for a paper bag. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">She passed it to him. He unfolded it carefully, turned it upside down, and lowered it over his head.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'Oh no, not again,' he cried, with hands as big as dinner plates waving around in mock alarm.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">We all looked elsewhere, until he took the bag off his head, packed his two items, and left. Still smiling.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">He was a mystery. Our non-reaction felt like a missed opportunity, a minor tragedy.</span></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-1191069616733480622023-04-20T20:18:00.075-04:002023-07-11T09:03:51.850-04:00Montreal life and music<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">We were at the symphony orchestra last night. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">On our way in the metro, we sat in the seats reserved for non-able-bodied passengers. That always makes me feel uneasy, even when the carriage is half-empty and no-one needs them. Two teenagers in high spirits stood beside us. When we arrived at Place-des-Arts one of them shouted at Martine as we got off the train. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'Madame!' </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">We were startled. He pointed at the floor under the seat where we'd been sitting. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'Vous avez oublié quelque chose.' </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">There was a grubby sweater on the floor, like something a homeless person might wear. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">'Ce n'est pas à moi' said Martine. We turned away, relieved. 'Merci,' added Martine, just as the doors closed behind us. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">In the Place-des-Arts metro station a figure wearing a white animal mask (a white wolf? a husky?) played Beethoven on a violin. Was it someone well known? I once saw a video of Joshua Bell playing in the New York metro, maybe it was him? People were hurrying to the concert, no-one had time to stop and listen to the free music, though the figure played really well.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgarIkjQkUK5c0rzX4wAe4AxxksbRxaOZOnJOMVuDa6WT-6BH13MrICWfBbiSifU7YPYUp-zqckYcF9A8_Q_7YvV0r2ALZmU-Q_XXRewztdH2HyKYgskVVvk3wIa2nXOMkLWfa9Ohxp_cIKoSftJ_MYghTJV0ZMBSLoVdtd2QCBpkSBHt3DOL2SqrEh/s3642/ViolinPlayer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3642" data-original-width="2957" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgarIkjQkUK5c0rzX4wAe4AxxksbRxaOZOnJOMVuDa6WT-6BH13MrICWfBbiSifU7YPYUp-zqckYcF9A8_Q_7YvV0r2ALZmU-Q_XXRewztdH2HyKYgskVVvk3wIa2nXOMkLWfa9Ohxp_cIKoSftJ_MYghTJV0ZMBSLoVdtd2QCBpkSBHt3DOL2SqrEh/s320/ViolinPlayer.jpg" width="260" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The first piece <a href="https://placedesarts.com/fr/evenement/bruce-liu-interprete-second-concerto-chopin">at the concert inside the Maison Symphonique</a> was atonal and strange. 'Il n'y a pas de mélodie' said the elderly woman beside me under her breath. The last part of it was moving, the violins making a sound like water trickling from melting ice, the violinists bowing rapidly while sliding their fretting fingers up and down the neck of their violins. The second piece was a symphony by Sibelius, which flipped the normal sequence by rushing to a huge crescendo at the end of the third movement, while the final movement slipped away as the violins made a sound like a final breath. The third piece was a Chopin concerto played beautifully by a Chinese-Canadian pianist from Montreal, Bruce Liu. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span>Returning to t</span>he Place-des-Arts metro station we passed a homeless man sitting on the floor by the metro's ticket booth. He had a wide smile for everyone, and an elderly lady dropped a toony in his paper cup.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Exiting the metro At Villa Maria station we passed an elderly man sitting on the floor at the bottom of the escalator. A young guy passing handed him a small Tim Horton's bag and he took out a chocolate donut. 'Thanks man,' he shouted, beaming toothlessly. 'No problem,' replied the young guy. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Outside it was chilly, normal for mid-April, but it had been unseasonably warm over the weekend and we'd thought that summer had arrived. It hadn't.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">P.S. (May 24th) I've seen the masked violinist several times since and gave him five dollars after taking this photo. I don't think it's Johsua Bell...</span></p><div><br /></div>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-39810899452216947392023-04-10T20:10:00.046-04:002023-05-24T20:17:55.934-04:00Muldoonisms<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Paul Muldoon speaks the truth in his inimitable style, <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/2023/04/10/paul-muldoon-lines-on-the-25th-anniversary-of-the-good-friday-agreement/">in a poem published in the Irish Times</a> to marks the 25th anniversary of the Good Friday agreement:</span></p><p></p><blockquote><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">We think the playwright works in words <br />when her medium’s largely silence. </span></i> </blockquote><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">and </span></p><p></p><p></p><blockquote><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">We think the plumber works in lead<br />when his medium’s mainly water.</span></i></blockquote><p></p><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-53766646916559120162023-03-26T15:53:00.006-04:002023-06-18T21:06:41.018-04:00Hidden amongst trees<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">He flew across the road in front of me on huge silent wings. I peered into the forest and, for a moment, I couldn't see him. I gave a low whistle and then he looked right at me.</span></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi56YGWQxPC3kx2CCA84dgoJ8c_zD9TD_iY6sPtZSIgfV9r1ya4DCcjMjKolOVNPSTajlJkz8f82LNktRGLmMuHKuI36S7YXotKhdwRKPrPfSFw8o7hyguABG_vy3tp-U4pPp1Ogjg8x7FXjTzn6jkvJ-324IokrI73cJQuwZOkGHNDmapEMfO5h-BM/s1409/20230322_182013_2-edit-20230323172032.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1092" data-original-width="1409" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi56YGWQxPC3kx2CCA84dgoJ8c_zD9TD_iY6sPtZSIgfV9r1ya4DCcjMjKolOVNPSTajlJkz8f82LNktRGLmMuHKuI36S7YXotKhdwRKPrPfSFw8o7hyguABG_vy3tp-U4pPp1Ogjg8x7FXjTzn6jkvJ-324IokrI73cJQuwZOkGHNDmapEMfO5h-BM/w400-h310/20230322_182013_2-edit-20230323172032.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Saint-Étienne-de-Bolton, March 22nd 2023</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-36507321949617029412023-03-24T18:52:00.007-04:002023-08-08T10:52:00.321-04:00Irish songs we learned at school<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span>Well I learned them at school in Dublin, but my sons learned them in the car on the way to their French school in Montreal, thanks to the album by John Spillane. I re-discovered the CD last month as I cleared out the car before selling it, and the boys were filled with nostalgia. They still know lots of the words, pronouncing them almost perfectly in imitation of Spillane's Kerry Gaelic, </span><span>though they've no idea what they mean</span><span>. They were stunned to learn that 'An Poc ar Buile' was about an angry goat!</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Turn up the volume!</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/zzdnmjglCxo" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">They're young men now, no longer boys. And the VW has left us after sixteen Montreal winters of ice salt and potholes.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2272" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheqdjmJXtPPPUscmE_WcNZK2dmHzPW0N8tynrf6fAcrMbSUGUmF_9f9pUgFz657ztO-OO4lrrdB0RRtBT-JPdZGgJ8DQMuKzeWYVLnBBsYNTBUk37JL1zGXRTwdjf74tg8-W7dNc2WVJOpYxt1lhFrRKOW-ZoDSFl9tDwiSh-e1fQUEKSiKeLzMDj-/s320/VW-GTi-2007.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">My new VW GTi in September 2007</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdAjCUpl-9ahBOZX-FSbjCO78RUypvCgYm9jaBBzcvRBgKVheXSSOmxuJ_2NXOMKo-lCOtCuRRXWZmEJLms8mdgG7pIAy9iES3vjtiuMDbfL1CW9OvqB3pfzNFODPUdf0puMUdX8gwa5dobbQDkTtIApcfuAL168GpVeK_ZSXB3H2Tacl5tjInKvVV/s4032/20230111_111258.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdAjCUpl-9ahBOZX-FSbjCO78RUypvCgYm9jaBBzcvRBgKVheXSSOmxuJ_2NXOMKo-lCOtCuRRXWZmEJLms8mdgG7pIAy9iES3vjtiuMDbfL1CW9OvqB3pfzNFODPUdf0puMUdX8gwa5dobbQDkTtIApcfuAL168GpVeK_ZSXB3H2Tacl5tjInKvVV/s320/20230111_111258.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">When I sold it in January 2023</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I feel those sixteen years too.</span><br /></span><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-76322933591574663452023-03-24T12:53:00.002-04:002023-03-24T19:01:46.032-04:00Reading list<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I haven't updated the list of books I've read since <a href="https://bigloolaa.blogspot.com/2021/08/reading-not-blogging.html">a post in August 2021</a>. Here's my reading list for the period September 2021 to December 2022.</span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Fiction</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Barnes, Julian: Levels of Life</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Barrett, Colin: Homesickness</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Borges, Jorge Luis: Labyrinths<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><a name="_Toc127894281">Cusk, Rachel: Second Place</a><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Erskine, Wendy: Dance Move</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><a name="_Toc127894305">Galgut, Damon: The Promise</a><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Ishiguro, Kazuo: Klara and the Sun</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><a name="_Toc127894330">Jean, Michel: Kukum</a><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Keegan, Clare: Small Things Like These</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Magee, Audrey: The Colony</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><a name="_Toc127894346">Mansfield, Katherine: Selected
Stories</a><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Mitchell, David: The thousand autumns of Jacob De Zoet</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Murnane, Gerald: The Plains</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Rooney, Sally: Beautiful World, Where Are You</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Saramago, José: Blindness</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Shafak, Elif: Three daughters of Eve</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Tóibín, Colm: The Testament of Mary</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Woolf, Virgina / Emre, Merve: The annotated Mrs Dalloway</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span>My top three would be the books by Magee, Mitchell, and Saramago, with honorable mentions for Ishiguro and </span>Tóibín. I didn't get on at all with the book by Murnane, simply finding it dull. The book by Sally Rooney was good, she writes well, but I really don't understand what all the hype is about. The narrator's voice in Rachel Cusk's 'Second Place' got on my nerves a bit, but thinking about it afterwards I sense that was deliberate on Cusk's part and I've resolved to read the book again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I also read a lot of non-fiction and particularly enjoyed the personal history 'We Don't Know Ourselves' by Fintan O'Toole. His Ireland is also my Ireland, and unfortunately it includes the perverted and sexually abusive Christian Brother we both encountered in Colaiste Chaoimhin, me six years after him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Poetry Collections</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Caldwell, Anne: Alice and the North</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Ducker, Christy: Skipper</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Mahon, Derek: New Selected Poems</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Ní Ghríofa, Doireann: Lies</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Ní Ghríofa, Doireann: To Star the Dark</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">These are all great but the collection by Caldwell was particularly illuminating, showing me possibilities that I hadn't imagined before in a themed sequence of prose poems.</span></p><div><br /></div>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-47302559534381425642023-03-24T12:19:00.003-04:002023-08-08T10:19:55.151-04:00The Magnolia Electric Co.<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I've only just discovered <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jason_Molina">Jason Molina</a>. I'm too late. He died ten years ago, in March 2013, from the effects of his long-term alcoholism, while his greatest recording, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Magnolia_Electric_Co.">The Magnolia Electric Co.</a>, was released twenty years ago in March 2003. But since I first heard it a few months ago I've been playing it over and over. Musically and lyrically it's almost perfect - Molina had a writer's gift for an arresting image and a voice that made sure you saw it and felt it too.</span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Long dark blues</span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Through the static and distance</span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Long dark blues</span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">A farewell transmission</span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Long dark blues</span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Listen.</span></i></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> </span></p>
<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/uSHNITpnuPY" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></div>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-42554853172548526882023-03-22T11:42:00.074-04:002023-06-18T21:42:35.783-04:00Ainadamar, Opéra de Montréal<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I went to this opera without any real idea of what to expect, and I was blown away. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">It was all the more surprising because the last two operas I saw were disappointing. I had found the storytelling to be poor, the pace lurching between way too slow and far too fast, and even though the singing was often very good and the sets extraordinary, the overall effect was dissatisfying.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">But in Ainadamar the pace is really well judged. It opens quickly and you have to pay attention as it switches from scenes of the Spanish civil war featuring the poet Lorca, to a performance of one of his plays in Uruguay in the 1960's. The connection between these two is the character Marianna / Margarita, a role superbly acted and sung by Emily Dorn. As we get to know the characters the pace slows so we can feel their feelings, and the ending is just exquisite, long lines of melody and heartbreaking singing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The music is a highlight. Each scene has a signature rhythm, sometimes flamenco, in one stunning part the sound of gunshots and rifles reloading brings us through a massacre in the war.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The <a href="https://www.lapresse.ca/arts/musique/2023-03-21/critique-de-l-opera-ainadamar/quand-la-liberte-s-ecrit-en-lettres-de-sang.php">review in La Presse</a> was very enthusiastic too.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I had been thinking of not going to the opera for a while, but maybe I should change my mind.</span></p><p><br /></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-1839490211804774322023-02-26T15:58:00.001-05:002023-05-24T20:18:06.286-04:00The leaf's last dance...<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw4eLiwlHUE_cTtGlOSNwUcFj5hQPUaPl9jplg3AD280wvX5ykGz58M0jaUWr9gfzQ-AiMXRKHupCcO0Ndpdg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /> <p></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-54202631849967301692022-11-01T11:05:00.091-04:002023-08-03T11:59:01.776-04:00Salomé Leclerc in Knowlton, Oct 29th 2022<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">When I was thinking about buying an Epiphone Casino guitar I listened to a lot of musicians who play one. The Beatles, obviously. Thom Yorke in the brilliant <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ti6qhk3tX2s">garden recording of The Numbers</a>. And <a href="https://salomeleclerc.com/">Salomé Leclerc</a> who is relatively unknown even in her home province of Québec. She deserves more recognition. Her songs are simple but well-crafted and true, she has a delicate voice, and she plays her guitars with feeling and no little skill.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">So when she gave a concert in Knowlton in late October, a short drive from our chalet, we had to be there. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The crowd at the concert was small but enthusiastic. She was playing a bigger concert in Montreal a few days later so it felt like she was using this gig as a warm-up, but her performance was excellent. Accompanied by just a drummer, José Major, her songs were more alive and powerful than in her recordings, and she introduced them with engaging anecdotes. She's definitely worth seeing live again - and she should seriously consider a live recording.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">She toured the exact same concert throughout Québec and France over the past year so this extract from Lyon is a nice reminder of the gig in Knowlton. She's playing her Casino, her one has a Bigsby tremolo which mine doesn't but otherwise they're identical. But I can't quite get the same sound out of mine!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SMC8wfp9xIY" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></div>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-46099409278992119082022-03-24T18:00:00.002-04:002022-03-24T18:12:37.018-04:00Bernie Lumsden (née Hendrick), 1929 - 2022<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> My mother Bernie died on March 11th. My sister gave me the long dreaded 'get on a flight home now' message the day before, and thankfully I made it to the hospital in Dublin to hold her hand for a few hours before she left us.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">This is the eulogy I delivered at the end of her funeral mass on March 19th. </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Ar dheis Dé go raibh a hanam.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">--</span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Good morning everyone. It's wonderful that we can all
be here today to remember Bernie together, now that the worst of the pandemic
restrictions are over. All of her family is here too with a couple of big
exceptions: her sister Patty who is in a nursing home and too unwell to be here,
and my daughter Emily who was unable to come over from Sweden but I know she's
watching on the webcam. (Hi Emily! Hi to everyone who is watching online!). <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">At a Lumsden family moment like this we also remember
my cousin, Father Dave Lumsden, who died in the first year of the pandemic when
there were very tight restrictions on funeral attendance. He was our guide in
these moments and we feel his absence today.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I'd like to tell you some things about my Mam and,
given that she was energetic and sharp as a tack for her entire 92 and a half
years, there are an awful lot of things to choose from. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I’ll start with the swimming lessons. Mam taught
literally hundreds of people to swim, kids and adults. She believed that
everyone should know how to swim, that it was an essential life skill. So, when
the pool was built for the boys school on Parnell Road she was disappointed that
there were no public lessons. She made an arrangement with the Christian
Brothers and booked four hours a week to run lessons for everyone, charging
just enough to cover the cost of the rental. She put a lot of work into it for
no financial reward for more than 15 years, and long after she'd stopped she'd
have people coming up to her in SuperValu to say 'you're Mrs Lumsden aren't
you? You taught me to swim when I was a kid!'<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Mam was a fluent Irish speaker. Not from school of
course - she left school at 14 - but with the support of Dad she enrolled in
adult education in her late 40's and worked painstakingly to learn vocabulary
and master the complicated grammar. When Ita and I were in our rooms doing our
homework, Mam would be at the dining room table working on <i>an modh
coinníollach</i> or <i>an tuiseal ginideach</i>, words to bring back terrifying
memories of Irish grammar lessons at school to many of us! She became
completely fluent, she and Dad holidaying every year in the Gaeltacht in County
Kerry. At 90 years old she was still toddling off down by the canal on Parnell
Road every Monday morning to take the Luas to Dundrum to participate in an
Irish conversation group. Mam, born and bred in Dublin with little education,
was a proud <i>gaeilgeoir</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">She was also a published poet, in both English and in
Irish. She took part in creative writing classes, and had poems published in
the three volumes of the 'Women's Work' collections. Here's a poem about my Dad
that was published in the third volume. It's entitled 'Scéal Grá' or 'A Love
Story' - I'll read it and then summarise it afterwards for all of us whose
Irish is not at Mam's level.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 27pt;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 27pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><u><span lang="EN-US">Scéal
Grá</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 27pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Is
gnáthduine mé<br />
Coitianta a bhí mo shaol.<br />
Tháinig tú chugam-sa<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 27pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Thóg
tú mo chroi<br />
Thug tú ghrá dom<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 27pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Gan
cheist gan chúis<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 27pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Uaitse
a fuair mé<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 27pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Saibhreas
saoil<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 27pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Is
gnáthduine mé<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 27.0pt; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 27pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">D'aithrigh
tú mo shaol.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">In the poem Mam says she is a 'gnáthdhuine' - an
ordinary person - and that Dad loved her and changed her life. It's true, he
did, but I think you'll agree that Bernie Lumsden was far from an ordinary
woman.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">She was an avid traveller. Not just to Tunisia on
packaged holidays, though she did that several time with Dad, but ready to venture
out and explore different cultures. As a young woman she travelled extensively
across post-war Europe with her sister Patty. (In the light of the recent
events of Ukraine I should probably call it inter-war Europe, unfortunately.) At
almost 80 years old she travelled to Vietnam to visit Ita and her family. Aged
90, her last trip was with me just before the pandemic to see her
grand-daughter and two great-granddaughters in Sweden.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The pandemic put an end to a lot of her activities of
course, but throughout she remained independent, living alone in her house on
Parnell Road, keeping up with the news and, of course, with the Formula One.
She was a big fan, I took her to the Canadian GP a few times. No doubt this
weekend she would have been insisting to me again that Vettel was a better
driver than Hamilton. I realise now that she got the last word on that topic!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I've been living in Canada for almost fifteen years
now, and so my sister Ita and her family did a huge amount for Mam these past
few years to help her maintain her independence. So too did her friends,
especially Tricia and Tommy, and Sister Ailish and Sister Imelda.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The last two months were tough for Mam, moving back
and forwards between the hospital and the convalescent home, but given her
strength and her willpower Ita and I were sure she would be home again. When I
spoke to her last week she was still up-to-date on what all of her
grandchildren were doing. The end of her life came too soon, which is a
remarkable thing to be able to say about a woman who was almost 93 years old. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">There’s a lot more to say about Mam. After the burial in Sutton it'd be great if as many of you as possible came with us to the White Sands Hotel in Portmarnock where we'll remember Mam in the way she'd have loved, with a chat over something to eat and a cup of tea. Thank you.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcrA_hLgp5z1BKA5gfLRVhQnIAwI5Qek_9XlN7Y3BTaslsuLHnwq0sh6cVmIB8UoVun3QY0YjIbXmKc57eoSDU2YLoMfgLF3bW3S_WxH-2ukc0KMvxkarrXAORPEr-kdvjdad1m2Qfdnyv9lIWcPCCWUjsCmzeDJhxlzXT5W065uTxuErbiI13BYp/s4662/20180816-Inch-P1010544.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3108" data-original-width="4662" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcrA_hLgp5z1BKA5gfLRVhQnIAwI5Qek_9XlN7Y3BTaslsuLHnwq0sh6cVmIB8UoVun3QY0YjIbXmKc57eoSDU2YLoMfgLF3bW3S_WxH-2ukc0KMvxkarrXAORPEr-kdvjdad1m2Qfdnyv9lIWcPCCWUjsCmzeDJhxlzXT5W065uTxuErbiI13BYp/w400-h266/20180816-Inch-P1010544.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mam in her element, <br />windblown on Inch beach in Kerry, August 2018</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-12713029193757524362021-12-16T10:05:00.005-05:002022-01-19T15:55:23.416-05:00Wise words of a 13-year-old<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">‘<i>Winter is the only season that we experience twice in the same year</i>’</span></p><p><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> - said Philou as we tramped through the slush this morning</span></span><br /></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-84126667454118386442021-11-29T15:51:00.006-05:002021-11-30T12:16:05.634-05:00The Brandenburg Concertos<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> I'm spoiled. I admit it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Last night, I was with my partner-in-life at a beautiful old church in downtown Montreal for a performance of Bach's sublime Brandenburg concertos. But, as the music began to resonate around us, my only thought was 'Dammit, the timing is off between the horns and the violins'.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I've been spoiled by regular visits to two of the best symphony orchestras in the world. So now it seems I want perfection every time. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Thankfully I got over myself by the time we got to the second concerto, and enjoyed listening to some wonderful musicians playing these glorious (and difficult) pieces. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihgO1PjluHk2I0iaPGv08sNQVnVPUrATPBqGsD9VFcwdyVGiaUqrkAKBEm7Kb_dpjK-GS5xDC-5upD-P9RtF4XiKb4Q7mQ2x_SrRC4sjutmcPfCsK1vzhWGcJkAN1ay5PzINfnCSdiY8/s1046/Brandenburg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1046" data-original-width="806" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihgO1PjluHk2I0iaPGv08sNQVnVPUrATPBqGsD9VFcwdyVGiaUqrkAKBEm7Kb_dpjK-GS5xDC-5upD-P9RtF4XiKb4Q7mQ2x_SrRC4sjutmcPfCsK1vzhWGcJkAN1ay5PzINfnCSdiY8/w309-h400/Brandenburg.jpg" width="309" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><br /></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-22681296849572365802021-11-23T11:39:00.003-05:002021-11-24T11:04:55.801-05:00The Brightening, by Doireann Ní Ghríofa<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I 'discovered' Doireann Ní Ghríofa last year during the first months of lockdown when I was reading incessantly. Her book 'A Ghost in the Throat' still haunts me, one of the most compelling voices I've ever heard wandering through the lives of women whose souls are intertwined, centuries apart. So I was delighted to find her video performance of her poem 'The Brightening'. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span> </span>I call it a performance rather than a reading, because like her book it's quite hard to tell where the line is between narrator and narrative. We move seamlessly back and forth from interior to exterior, from past to present. Given the title, 'The Brightening' and the way her west of Ireland accent draws out those long O sounds, I was reminded of these lines by Yeats:</span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, </span></i></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">How can we know the dancer from the dance?</span></i></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">(from <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43293/among-school-children">Among School Children</a> by W.B.Yeats) </span></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span> </span>In this performance by Ní Ghríofa the dancer and the dance are truly one. I can't say that I understand it all (could you ever say that about a poem?) but the conjunction with Yeats doesn't seem accidental: the image of the grand old house going up in flames feels connected to last days of the old Irish ascendancy of Yeats and Lady Gregory, and just this moment I noticed that the video was filmed in <a href="https://www.coolepark.ie/history/">Coole Park</a>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span> </span>The poem is a response to <a href="https://ireland-calling.com/the-planters-daughter/">'The Planter's Daughter' by Austin Clarke</a>, but whereas the eponymous daughter in that poem is passive and an apologist for her family of planters in the big house, this narrator is strong and subversive and burns the house down. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span> There are so many extraordinary lines and images in the poem, but I'll highlight these:</span><br /></span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Ghosts, those flames, racing up the stairs,</span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">sending smoke through slates,</span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">a vast constellation of sparks</span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">to star the dark.</span></i></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span> </span>But listen to her say them for the full effect. The complete text of the poem is available <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/music/the-saturday-poem-brightening-by-doireann-n%C3%AD-ghr%C3%ADofa-1.3351928">here on the Irish Times website</a>, though the version she performs has evolved a little since that publication.</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/kW4s0bt0Apk" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Wow.</span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><br /></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1047746489670252982.post-3252516607004489992021-11-16T18:19:00.000-05:002021-11-24T10:25:24.580-05:00Appreciating Paul Robeson<p> <span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">A few weeks ago we went for dinner at <a href="https://restaurant-damas.com/" target="_blank">Damas</a>. the celebrated Syrian restaurant on Rue Van Horne. All five of us together, which took some advanced planning by my partner-in-life as the tables at Damas have to be reserved months in advance and the boys like to keep their weekends open. But it all worked out. The food was fabulous and the dishes kept coming until we were beyond stuffed. And the conversation around the table was lively of course.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">In the minivan on the way home a discussion (in French) broke out amongst the boys about which of them had the deepest voice. The two older ones said that the music teacher at Stanislas had said they were both baritones, but they thought that P's voice would end up deeper than theirs, though we don't think his has fully broken yet. I asked had they ever heard a real bass singing voice and they said they hadn't. So I had my chance to introduce a little culture in to the proceedings.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">My Dad's favourite singer was Paul Robeson. Not that he ever put on a record or anything, but if a song came on the radio he'd say 'ah that's glorious'. So through the wonders of the internet I played this song over the van's speakers, and the boys all loved it. It was the perfect end to a great Sunday evening. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/iEQEeNhtosg" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Laurence Lumsdenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06340887899811445119noreply@blogger.com0